


Watching Stars Without You

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU within a canon divergence, Angst, BAMF!Mal, Community: i-reversebang, Developing Relationship, Dream Extraction, First Time, Forging (Inception), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Pre-Canon, Tender Sex, World War II, World War II dreamscape, Wrong dream in Paris, reading glasses!Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:51:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a major screwup cost him his last job, Eames was ready to give up on his love of Arthur and forging. Of course, he can never pass on an opportunity to see Arthur again, so when Dom and Mal agree to a favor from Miles, he signs up for the job at once.</p><p>By the time the forger and point man realize that they could actually be together, it may be too late, as a simple extraction in an old man's dream turns into a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Stars Without You

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Contempler Les Étoiles Sans Toi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168768) by [Bepopalula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bepopalula/pseuds/Bepopalula)



> This is my Inception Reverse Bang masterpiece for LiveJournal. My god...so much fun...so many feels.
> 
> The art that inspired this piece (below) was created by the MARVELOUS tamat9. Brainstormed and plotted sinisterly by tamat9 as well!
> 
> Beta'd by the INCREDIBLE jikeidannin over at LiveJournal. 
> 
> (and thanks so much, curiousloveable, for helping tamat9 with the location!)
> 
> Comments, critiques, and kudos cuddles always highly appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy! :D

****

**++++**

+

 

Gerhardt Sturm was losing sleep again.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. By the end of each day, the old man’s joints were sore, his breath labored, and the only thing he could wish for in this world was a good night’s rest.

When he closed his eyes, however, that rest was never long.

The ghost was there, always there, still haunting him after decades. Soft hands turned to claws, lovely brown eyes turned black and cold with indifference to his suffering, and that dimpled smile, which had at one time warmed his heart, was forever a smirk, laughing at his fear and agony. The old man would reach out to the ghost standing at the foot of his bed, like a drowning man imploring for a lifejacket, and the ghost would only stare back, watching him drown, again and again.

He could feel the ghost lurking on the edge his mind throughout his days. And now, in the bright glow of the moon, the spirit reveled in his misery without mercy.

The old man would laugh if his body was not wracked with pain, if his frail heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. He was too honest to call his fate unfair. Oh no.

He knew very well just how much he deserved this unending torment.

++

+

 

“Can I get you anything else, Miles? Miles?” Dom prompted again.

Miles blinked. “Sorry, my son.” He sipped down the rest of his tea, his eyes still on Mal and Marie as they played in the summer grass with Phillipa. “Now what were you on about, again?” He smiled when the toddler plucked up a dandelion for Mal. Try as he might, he couldn’t be bothered with Dom’s political theories across the picnic table, not when his granddaughter had just discovered her first ladybug in the grass.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” He heard Dom say.

“Now, _that_ ,” Miles chuckled, “is something we can both agree on.”

“Mal’s convinced that she doesn’t look like either of us.”

“That’s because she looks like my mum, back when she was young.”

Dom studied Phillipa for a moment. “Well, I’ll be… “ He smiled. “I remember Mal showing me her pictures. She was lovely.”

“She would have adored Phillipa. I remember, back when I was a lad, before the war, she used to have this golden locket she’d wear everywhere, all the time. A gift from her mother. She made pop take it with him when he got stationed in Paris as a liaison between the British army and the French resistance fighters. She had a dream of passing that little necklace down the line, make it a family thing, you know? Phillipa would have loved that little locket.”

“Your mother never got it back?” he asked carefully, intrigued by Miles’ history.

“No.” He shook his head. “When pop was killed, his partner, this fellow by the name of Gerhardt Sturm, was supposed to send his belongings back to London. He sent my mother _some_ things, but not all. My father used to keep his most prized possessions, such as the letters from my mum, newspaper clippings from London, his notes, money, jewelry, and such all, in a small safe. We never got it back.”

Dom frowned. “I suppose he didn’t turn out to be the best partner, huh? If he took it.”

“Oh, he took it, alright. Told us he never found a safe, but mum suspected. My mother never stopped doubting that that man couldn’t be trusted, but…my old man swore by him, in his letters,” he mused. “Of course, the safe’s never done Mr. Sturm any good, seeing as I have this.” He reached into his collar and revealed the silver key hanging from the necklace. “My father was a smart man. Must have known his time was running out, so he sent this to me with a letter, instructions on what to do with the safe’s contents, but… And now I wonder if I simply didn’t try hard enough.”

“Were you ever able to get in contact with the man?”

“Oh, sure. He was a German, which in the context of the war can make any man jump to certain conclusions about his character or his motives working with the French resisters, but he checked out. After pop’s arrest, he fled back home to lay low in some little German town, probably knowing that the Gestapo would be on his heels too. It wasn’t until years later when I was in university that one of his letters found me. We struck up a pretty decent correspondence, until one day, when I told him that I was getting married to Marie and invited him to the wedding in the hopes of not only meeting the man my father trusted with his life, but also to get that safe back. Well, I haven’t heard from him since.” He frowned into his empty mug.

“Would you ever try again?” Dom asked after a while as both men sat in deep thought.

Miles could almost see the idea formulating in Dom’s head. “No. I’m too old now to chase down an even older man who could be dead, for all I know, but… Every now and then, I still think about it and wonder. It’s a shame, to have lived this long, and regret never going after it myself. Always wondering, always…chasing after the what-ifs and the maybes.” Miles glanced back out at Phillipa. “Well, I suppose, as I said, it’d be too late now. That safe’s got to be long gone.”

Dom’s brow creased for a moment. He pondered the idea. “But what if…” He looked to his father-in-law, his brow raised.

A knowing smile fleeted across his face. “Yes. What if, indeed.”

+

 

“I have _got_ to stop waking up like this.” Eames groaned through a stretch and rolled over in his wide, lonely bed.

He’d been dreaming again of… _him_. Dark short hair a mess and his skin just as smooth and kissable, like Eames always knew it would be—in the event that Arthur might actually let him touch, one day.

And in this half-remembered dream, they were together, at long last. All tangled limbs, soft lips, and whispered words. Perfect.

Impossible.

Their last job, that fight, had proved all that.

It still hurt. Like he’d lost a lover he’d never truly had. All they’d done was touch hands over coffee, long before, and each time, each try, just hurt worse when it failed.

Eames almost wondered if the dreams he woke up to on mornings like this helped or not.

He had half a mind to let his phone go to voicemail when it rang, until he peeked from under his pillow and saw that it was Dom calling.

“Mr. Cobb, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Eames,” he heard Dom say, “I was actually planning on leaving a message. I’m surprised you’re up this early.”

Eames glanced at the clock. It was well past noon. “Very funny. Still have Arthur keeping tabs on me, have you?”

Dom didn’t say, as if hearing Eames ask that was the first time he’d given thought to the fact that Arthur always seemed to know just where Eames was. Instead, he chuckled, “He’s been doing a pretty impressive job at keeping the Elliot group off your tail. I wish I could say the same about you. Looks like your pursuit of total self-destruction is going rather well.”

Ever the condescending bastard. “Did you call me just for pleasantries, Dom? I’m touched, but I’m sorry to say that I have better plans.”

“Such as,” Dom’s voice smirked through the phone.

Now would be a fantastic time to hang up, Eames thought, but Dom was never one to overstay a forced welcome.

“Got any plans these days?”

“Lots of plans.” Eames rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Dreamshare pariahs are always busy.” He chuckled, but then a thought struck him. “Is Arthur with you?” he asked after a pause.

“He is,” Dom replied simply.

Eames hummed in understanding. He cleared his throat when it got tight suddenly. “Still mad, huh?”

“I try not to meddle.”

Eames held back a snort. “No, of course not.” The only reason why things with Arthur were doomed from the start was because of Dom’s meddling and his insistence that Eames was a no-gooder, even if Eames had proven him right several times now.

“I’m actually calling because I have a job offer for you.”

“Is that so?” That didn’t sound right. Besides, Arthur usually made these kinds of calls. “If you’re experiencing memory loss, Dom, you might want to think about seeing a doctor. Unless you now consider my last fuck-up to be a job well done, then… Then you still ought to see a doctor.”

“It’s a simple job. Shouldn’t be too hard for you to pull off. And it’s for Miles,” he added. “Arthur’s the one who requested you.”

Not that Eames needed much of a push considering his constant state of unemployment, but… Dom Cobb sure did know how to sell a pitch.

Eames sat up at that last bit, trying to convince himself that he didn’t care. “Now, now, Mr. Cobb, you wouldn’t be pulling my leg, would you?” But Dom didn’t need to clarify that Eames was the very last person he’d personally go to for a forger. “Arthur, you said, yeah? Hm… Tell you what, I’ll think about it and get back to you in a week.”

He was at the location in two days.

+

 

Arthur’s fingers drummed the side of his coffee. He adjusted his glasses and tried to focus on the folders spread out over his desk, in the warehouse’s large upstairs space. A full ten minutes passed before he put the cup to his lips.

If he told Dom to hire a different forger now, knowing damn well that Eames wouldn’t need a whole week to decide, it would prove more than one unflattering thing about him. First being that he couldn’t even talk to Eames himself, the other, that he was, in fact, still not over the man yet like he’d told Mal.

He wrinkled his nose, smelling Eames’ familiar brand of cigarettes from the opened windows near his worktable. Arthur’s heavy sigh held as much emotion as any curse could. He walked to the windows and peered down at the man on the street, watching Eames chat up his cab driver.

From what he could see of Eames’ back as he leaned on the cab, he looked good. Healthy, even. Maybe Eames had told the truth after all. Maybe he was getting his life back on track now. Or putting on a damn good act. Again.

“Arthur?” Mal’s voice drifted from the other side of the room, pulling him away from his musing.

 

Well, at least Eames had tried to make his entrance low-key. He would say his hellos, get caught up on the assignment with Dom, help brainstorm, set up his station, and ignore Arthur when they had to work alone. That was the plan.

Of course, thinking about Arthur, thinking about ignoring Arthur, and then seeing him standing across the room—that was a very different situation.

Arthur was still going over his PASIV modifications with Mal, his back turned and hunched over the device as they cleverly fit a spare vial of somnacin into the briefcase. All Eames could do was stare.

Before stepping into the warehouse, Eames could have envisioned an Arthur that he could pretend was just a coworker he hardly got on with. But here, upstairs, in the flesh, Arthur was…well he was lovely, with his straight posture and ensemble meticulously put-together, and all that remained of his Georgia lilt tucked away under the careful pronunciation of his words. He would always be more than a coworker, more than a friend, even. He was…

“Eames?” Dom addressed him, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You plan on standing in the doorway all afternoon, or…?”

Whatever Arthur had been saying trailed off, as he and Mal looked the forger’s way.

Eames saw it then, how Arthur couldn’t quite get his expression to change back into his normal evenness. He looked Eames over with wide eyes and parted lips, as if he wanted to say something.

“Well.” Eames cleared his throat and grinned into Mal’s hug. “That depends, Dom. You keep making Arthur rent these shithole warehouses. Am I safer nearer the door in case the floor collapses, _or_ …?” he mocked, smug under Dom’s offended glare.

“Boys,” Mal chided, “let’s save small talk for after our first meeting. Yes?” She stood beside her husband and chuckled when he and Eames nodded.

Eames glanced at Arthur again as he dropped his worn satchel on an empty desk. Arthur quickly dropped his eyes and turned back to the PASIV, his ears red.

 

“So,” Eames grunted, settling into the chair next to Arthur, “I realize I should have asked before signing on, but I suppose now’s as good a time as any to know why we’re here.” He looked to Dom and Mal expectantly, his hands steepled in his lap.

“Dom and I have agreed to assist my father in finding a safe that was stolen from my grandfather, after his arrest by the Gestapo,” Mal answered.

“Lieutenant colonel Bernard Miles, is it?” He took the folder Arthur passed his way and whistled. “My superior in the army’s espionage division had a nice little portrait of this man up in his office. You come from some damn good stock, Mrs. Cobb.” He watched Arthur jump up and pull the whiteboard over as if remembering it for the first time. “But, judging from that timeframe…that would mean the safe’s been missing over…six decades, isn’t it?” Eames snorted. “That’s impossible, love. It could be anywhere.”

“We know the man who last had the safe in his care.” Mal reached for the photo Arthur handed over and passed it to Eames. “Gerhardt Sturm was my grandfather’s confidante; a German student turned informant for the French Resistance in Paris, where my grandfather was assigned.”

Dom nodded. “We’ve managed to track down his location. He’s been living a pretty solitary life, since his wife died about twenty years ago—excluding a physical therapist’s visits once a week. Miles is convinced he would still have the safe. Figuring out where that might be, specifically, in Mr. Sturm’s possession or not, is the problem. When Miles contacted him recently, the man was more than a little hostile about the situation, even after such a long time.”

“Wait, he’s still alive? He’s in his nineties, right?”

“Eighty-nine,” Dom answered.

“Bloody hell.” Eames glanced over when Arthur returned to his seat, hardly paying Dom any mind. He managed to wink, just as Arthur looked over, and completely lost track of what Dom was saying when Arthur grinned reflexively. “So what do you need a forger to find a safe for? Or am I here just to swing by the old man’s house, nick it, and save you the trouble of wasting somnacin, hm?”

Arthur quickly averted his eyes back to the folder in his lap when Eames glanced over. He adjusted his glasses and tried not to chew on his pen or fidget too much under Eames’ gaze, but he rose to his feet again, aware now that the whiteboard needed markers. And then magnets for the notes and photos. And then the actual notes. And the photos. He might as well have never set up a dreamshare base before in his life.

If Eames would just stop staring at him.

He cleared his throat.

“Well, there’s more.” Dom shifted in his seat. “This is a simple enough extraction. However, no one’s ever used somnacin on a subject as old as Sturm. Now, the normal sedative would be much too strong, so we’ve had one tailored-made. We have a theory that this new sedative might be the link we’d need to travel deeper, to create a two-level dream, but that all depends how the mark will respond even in this one level dream,” Dom explained. “See, we’ve tested it multiple times ourselves, but who knows if our tolerance for somnacin might affect the way we handle it compared to someone who’s never been under before. This could end up as a major opportunity to expand the boundaries of dreamsharing, Eames.”

Eames could agree that this was all impressive, if not a little intimidating, but there was still a big problem. “A sedative _and_ somnacin? On an elderly man?” He frowned. “We’re going to use this man as our guinea pig?” At Dom’s nod, Eames sat up in his chair. “Um… Are you all mad?”

“It should be perfectly safe,” Arthur chimed in, getting a look from Eames that was nothing but incredulous. “What?”

“Arthur, I can assure you all now that having me toss a brick through his window and tearing up his house would be less dangerous for his health. I seem to remember Mal taking a yearlong break when she carried Phillipa?” He looked to Mal. “How is this different?”

“My father is seventy-six. He still uses somnacin daily,” she assured him.

“Seventy-six and eighty-nine is an awful lot of time, Mal.”

“Somnacin gets used on wealthy coma patients for therapy all the time,” Arthur stated. “It’s safe.”

Eames swiveled his chair to face the pointman. “Are any of those wealthy coma patients eighty-nine years old, Arthur?”

“It’s fine, Eames.”

“It just sounds a little dubious.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, and some of us here have done a lot worse, wouldn’t you agree?”

Eames’ brow shot up at Arthur’s implication. “Not like this.”

Arthur glared back. “Really? Since when did you develop a code of ethics?” He knew he should have stuck to his original plan of keeping quiet, but the words were past his lips before he could stop them.

Eames’ mouth would have hit the floor if he weren’t grinding his jaw shut. Arthur could see it. He knew that look. If only there was a un-do button, _something_. He moved to speak again, but Eames blinked and turned back to the Cobbs, his anger barely contained even as he played it cool.

Eames blinked again. “Well played, Arthur. Well played. I guess I’ll just be wearing gloves the whole time, so when the old man keels over, my fingerprints won’t end up in the middle of a murder investigation, because that’s exactly what it’ll look like if he dies. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I worked hard on this last passport and I’m not letting it get attached to this man’s death.”

“Please trust us, Eames,” Mal offered, glancing at Arthur. “You know we would never do anything that would be so dangerous. If we base this on our test findings, Mr. Sturm will be capable of reliving his time as a younger man, when he took and then hid the safe. He will see the world within the dream as we see it, for the first time.”

“And what’s your plan once we’re in?”

“We need you to forge my grandfather and let Gerhardt guide you through the day leading up to my grandfather’s arrest. He will have to see you as Bernard was. You will meet with him and share your fears of an imminent capture, request that he oversee the process of returning your possessions back to your wife in London, and inform him that Dom and Arthur will be there to assist in this matter. Our base will be a bookstore several blocks away. That’s where I’ll be, ready for backup in the event of hostile projections. The trick will be that in this scenario, Dom and Arthur will convince Sturm that you have been arrested in order for him take the safe and inevitably show them where he would have hidden it in the real world.”

“So I won’t actually get caught up in a real arrest?” That at least, seemed to make sense.

“A simple extraction, indeed.”

Eames nodded, thinking it over. “So, Dom’s going to put on his big boy pants and extract?” He studied Dom and the man’s own growing irritation with mock wonder. “And what will you be doing, Mal?”

“Don’t be silly, Eames. Dom has as a knack for extraction. This time, I want to build the dream and will also point with Arthur when needed. It’s only fitting that I make the maze, as we’ll be in Paris.” She smiled.

“And you said Arthur’s helping with the extraction?” He sat back in his chair. “We’ll be tap dancing through the projections of occupied Paris and all its Nazi horror, and Arthur’s going to help extract from this German man?” At Mal’s nod and Dom’s glare, Eames snorted. “Arthur?” He crossed his arms, not looking at him directly. “Please tell us your real surname.”

“Why is that impor…” and then it occurred to Arthur. He took off his glasses and huffed. “You’re kidding, right?” He glanced over to Dom who was trapped behind a lost expression as realization hit him as well. “Oh, come on, Dom. We’ll be going into an old man’s mind—that is most definitely _not_ militarized since he wouldn’t even know what extraction is—and besides, I can take care of myself. I’m not putting a sign on my forehead proclaiming that I’m Jewish. It’s no big deal.”

“No, but unless you’re skilled in forging documents in a dreamscape like Dom and Mal are, your papers will tell those projections enough, and if this is supposed to all seem totally real to Mr. Sturm, his projections will be checking papers left and right. My shining new code of ethics and I would rather not risk you having to carry the dream with bullets in your back, when you end up in a shootout against however many projections trying to arrest you,” Eames smirked.

“I’m touched, but I’d rather you use that concern for something a little less dramatic and something more realistic, Eames.”

“Right, well how about the fact that Sturm will be controlling the events of this dream and if you get nabbed by police, or if we all end up in a shootout and you die, it’ll jeopardize everything. We’ll need to be present with Sturm every step of the way and that will be impossible if the dream collapses.”

Mal frowned, cutting into Arthur and Eames’ escalating fight. “Arthur, you are staying with me and doing research for Eames and Dom’s references,” she decided sternly, ending whatever protest Arthur had ready.

+

 

Arthur’s ability to ignore Eames was much more tailored and successful than Eames’ ability to ignore Arthur. He was certain that there had to be a hole burned into the side of his face now, or his clothes, the way he felt Eames staring as he continued his arrangement of the chairs and files.

It would have been maybe possibly a little difficult, if Eames hadn’t caused him to get demoted to Mal’s secretary. They’d both be sitting in a bookstore the entire time Dom and Eames did actual work. Sure, he’d attacked Eames first. That was an accident, but this was work, this was Arthur’s first shot at being more than just the guy with the stack of papers, a gun, and a day planner—which reminded him that he needed to get the team’s hotel and flight accommodations squared away before they left for Germany, _and_ he still had to brief Eames on what he’d missed the last two days.

Arthur considered just letting the man catch himself up alone. Miles’ notes were at least a hundred pages long, and the photos and letters he’d found could fill a backpack. Too bad. If Eames wanted to be mad with Arthur – which in itself was unfair, since Arthur had to break his back for Dom to even consider hiring Eames – then so be it. And after all Eames had done? After all Arthur had patiently put up with?

He emptied his third cup of coffee with Miles’ box load of information sitting on the edge of the desk beside Eames’ station, and decided that Eames was a big boy and could sift through it all on his own. A vicious punishment, Arthur knew. Eames had the attention span of a hyper kid whenever he was upset. Just watching Eames struggle in his peripheral was worth it.

 

Arthur had the warehouse running like a small office in no time and was ready for coffee number four.

He headed for the bathroom downstairs to wash his hands, but almost changed his mind as Eames’ hand touched the door when his did.

“Mind if we share?” Eames asked, already trying to push past Arthur.

“Did you seriously just shove me?”

“I do hope you realize that I don’t give a shit about your obsessive need for hand washing every five minutes. But by all means, I’ll wait, if it’s that important. Go on.”

Arthur crossed his arms, knowing that his stalling would irritate Eames to no end. “I don’t know, Eames, is it safe?” He mocked, his accent more prominent the angrier he became. “Please protect me. There could be all sorts of danger waiting for me in there. Wouldn’t want to distract you when you’re peeing if I need you to save me.”

“Sadly, it would be much too out of character for me to be considerate then, too, right? Since you think I’m so loose with my morals—or used to be.”

Arthur sighed. “Eames—”

“Piss off.”

“Fuck you, I got here first.”

“But, in your mind, I’m not the sort of man to care, remember, Arthur?”

“Jesus Christ, Eames,” Arthur snapped. “Are we really fighting over _this_ too?”

Eames was ready to keep arguing, but Arthur looked genuinely dismayed. He followed Arthur into the bathroom and closed the door behind them.

Arthur set his glasses on the sink and laughed bitterly, looking around. “If I had checked first, which is part of my job, I would have known that there were four stalls in here and we wouldn’t have had to fight over who went first. I suck at being a pointman.”

Eames snorted. “Show me a man who can do your job better, and I’ll swear he’s just you in a disguise.”

He leaned against a sink. “Fuck, Eames, what are we doing, you know?” He turned to him and sighed. “Shit like this?” He pointed at the door. “This is just one reason why we can’t even—”

“No. Don’t say that. You know I don’t believe that, Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, Eames.”

“You want us to be together. Right?”

“I'm sure a man in hell would like a drink of water too, but…” He shrugged. “All we do is fight each other. All the time.” ~~~~

“Fine.” Eames took him by the arms to stop him from walking away. “Why am I here, then? Hm? If not so that we could at least…try again, Arthur, then what?”

“We’re here for work,” he answered, eyes on Eames’ collar. “Nothing else.”

“Bullshit. There’s plenty of good thieves, Arthur. Why pick me? Why did you have Dom call? And I know you were tracking me the whole time I was gone.” He felt himself getting angry again, when Arthur refused to meet his eyes. “You just wanted to see if I was still halfway down a bottle, didn’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“Am I your charity then?”

“Do I look like I give a shit about charity, Eames?”

His voice rose. “Why the hell am I here, then?”

Arthur sighed and shrugged at the wall behind Eames’ face. “You need a job.”

“Do I? I have a Masters in Psychology and a license to teach English Literature. And, as only you know, I’m sitting on a massive inheritance—”

“—No, no, no. That’s not—” 

“—I don’t need _any_ job, Arthur. Particularly not this one.”

Arthur groaned with frustration and dug his palms into his eyes. He shook his head. “Why does nothing I say to you ever come out meaning what it’s supposed to?”

“Because people like you don’t try hard enough to use words correctly?”

It was Arthur’s turn to be offended. “You told me once that you like my… Never mind. What I meant was,” he articulated, “I know you’ve fucked up a lot, but you are still the best forger in this business, and the only man who can pull off this forge, Mr. Eames. And pulling it off would prove for once that you are better than what everyone gives you credit for. Hell, you don’t even give yourself your due credit. Your forges are…effortless.” He stepped back, out of Eames’ reach, frowning and tired, as if opening up was exhausting. “I do care about you, and I’ll be damned if I let you go off the grid forever with your tail between your legs.”

“You,” Eames paused. “Huh. I see. That’s…”

Arthur waved his hands. “Forget it. Just stay. Please? You’re already here. And we don’t have time to hire somebody else.”

Eames grinned. “Arthur, are you begging me? Did you just say please?”

Arthur blinked and rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable. You ask me to be more transparent and when I am, you respond with something lewd and childish.” He glared. “And you wonder why the only constant feeling I have in your presence is regret.”

He tried to maneuver around Eames, deciding that it would be less hassle to get the coffee first and then come back when Eames was no longer here to pick on him.

Except, he and Eames both moved to the same side and did it again, trying and failing to step aside. Arthur reached forward to guide Eames out of the way and the next thing he knew, Eames had him pressed to one of the stall doors.

They stood close enough to feel each other breathing. Eames’ hands moved to Arthur’s hips.

“Stop,” Arthur whispered. He squeezed Eames’ arms when the man inched forward. “Eames,” he warned, turning his face away.

“Arthur.” Eames spoke, low and rough.

He put his hands on Eames’ chest and pushed with barely an ounce of strength behind it, but Eames still took a step back. “I don’t want us to make a mistake and end up further complicating…whatever it is that we have.”

“And I refuse to go my entire life without ever kissing you.”

Arthur could see it in Eames’ tense shoulders, the same restraint Arthur held over his own desire that wanted nothing more than for them melt into one another.

After a strained moment of Eames waiting for an answer and Arthur staring at the ground, Arthur glanced up, awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I blew it again, didn’t I?”

“No. Yeah, it’s…it’s fine. We’ll just…give it some more time, then.” He made a show of checking the time on his watch. “On the bright side, it’s been, what? Five minutes? Maybe eight, and we haven’t started another fight yet, so…maybe we’re on a decent track this time around.”

“Whatever would I do without your optimism, Mr. Eames,” Arthur responded, deadpan, but sincere.

Eames watched Arthur attempt a half smile and head for the door. “Glad to hear you say that. It’s good to not be entirely useless to you, Arthur,” he muttered, more bitter than he’d intended. Not that it mattered. Arthur was already at the door, shutting it behind him with only a quick apologetic glance back.

+

 

“Sorry,” Arthur heard Eames mutter, for what felt like the hundredth time that day, when their hands touched. They were sitting at Eames’ station after the video chat with Miles ended, going over the new photos he’d emailed them.

The extraction was only a week away. Mal still had her hands full with refining the dream designs and coaching Dom. Arthur gave the woman credit for everything—she was brilliant—but her patience with Dom was truly Olympic metal worthy.

Eames however, had the forge of Bernard Miles down to a science. All that was left was the visual picture. Arthur sifted through each photo, handing one and then another to Eames and sat silently in his usual amazement whenever Eames made his forge sketches.

He was hard at work illustrating the cut of Bernard’s formal and causal clothes when he realized his hand had found its way onto Arthur’s knee.

“Sorry,” he muttered again, a little pink blooming on his clean-shaven face.

Arthur watched Eames move his chair a few inches away. “Eames,” he stressed, voice low, “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

He caught Eames’ sheepish grin out of the corner of his eye and shook his head, unable to keep down his own little smile at Eames’ now obvious antics.

 

Eames perfected his full forge in Bernard Miles’ recreated bedroom.

Arthur sipped tea at the kitchen table, watching him change through the opened door.

The ceiling trembled again as Mal completed the upstairs apartment. From the windows, he could see her design of the Parisian city forming as well. Which is why he was surprised when she sat at the table with him a moment later and poured a cup for herself. Arthur smirked. “It’s official. Dominic Cobb is a control freak.”

“Oh, stop,” she chuckled. “He’s only working the maze now that I am here with you.”

He looked at her with suspicion. “Because?”

“Because you and I should talk,” she stated simply.

“Mal?” He tilted his head.

“How are you getting along with Eames?” she asked, straight to the point.

Arthur stalled by pouring himself more tea. “We’re not.”

“No?”

His brow creased when he glanced back into the bedroom. “No.”

“Because?”

“Because it’s smart.”

“It is obvious that you love him, Arthur.”

“He’s reckless,” Arthur griped.

“He loves you as well,” she responded. “Deeply.”

He didn’t have an easy retort for that.

Mal shook her head. “Arthur, then why? Why do you both skirt around each other as if you’re both afraid of catching fire?”

Arthur chuckled, nodding. She was right. Arthur and Eames had being engaging in a painfully awkward dance for weeks now, at an impasse with their own feelings.

And all the while, the changes in their behavior were tangible, the way Eames would stutter when caught staring and smile whenever he caught Arthur doing the same, the way their disagreements and arguments escalated in harsh words and ended with them disappearing into separate rooms and returning more than a little shy and embarrassed.

He sighed, rubbing his face. “We’ve tried it before. It didn’t work.”

“Perhaps the timing was not right. You and he are in very different places now than where you were before.”

“We’re just not…” He locked his fingers together to show Mal how well they fit.

“Then you must try again, to find a way that makes you fit.”

After a short pause, she frowned. “Did Dom say something to you?”

“He’s never said anything that didn’t turn out true in the end.”

Mal crossed her arms. “Stop letting him interfere,” she encouraged. “You hold Dom’s opinion very highly, but… I feel the same about my mother, and if the decision to marry Dom was up to her, it would not have ever happened, and we too would both be miserable.” She reached across the table and covered his hands. “Listen to what your heart tells you. Nothing else. And learn to see Eames through your own eyes. He is a man like any other, full of imperfection, but he’s trying very hard for you.”

“I don’t know what he wants from me,” he blurted out suddenly, frowning at the table between them.

Her eyes grew wide as she understood. “You and your stubborn insecurities, Arthur,” she chided. “He wants only for you to let him into your heart.”

“You make it sound so easy,” he muttered, hearing Eames humming in the raspy voice of Bernard Miles.

Mal rose from the table with a smile. “And you make it sound so difficult.”

+

 

Their rented car in Lindenfels, Germany was identical to the one driven by Gerhardt Sturm’s home nurse, who coincidentally had the afternoon off.

Arthur parked the car in the grass on the side of the road, as Dom gave Eames his final instructions.

“If you can slip him the sedative in water, do it as quickly as possible.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Eames grumbled, slamming the door behind him as he trekked up the driveway to the mark’s quaint little farmhouse.

Arthur mulled over Mal’s words, now that once again, his hopes, likes Eames’ had been crushed by yet another fight. He tried to busy himself with menial tasks in his moleskin as they waited for Eames to give them the go-ahead to follow him into the house.

Eames had hated the idea of being the one to sedate the old man as much as he still hated the idea of the extraction itself. And the way he’d looked at Arthur for suggesting this plan…it made Arthur wonder if his own apparent lack of morals had been the problem all along, not Eames.

Cobb answered his phone. Arthur tried not to feel any kind of way about it. It wasn’t like he’d called Eames for the job, so why would Eames call his phone now instead of Cobb’s?

++

+

++

 

Traffic bustled on the Parisian street outside of the near empty café. Eames glanced at the window as two soldiers walked past on their early morning rounds.

The young, impressionable Gerhardt Sturm was much easier on the eyes than he was as an older man, Eames thought, as the handsome brunette took a seat across from him at their small table.

“Bernard,” the German smiled, charmingly. “Forgive me for not being here sooner. I was distracted by a bit of writing.”

“Never worry, my boy. Writing is good for the mind. Now, before we delve any deeper, allow me to introduce to you my good friend, Mr. Charles Deneuve, who has just returned from Geneva with a few others. He’s here to pick up the slack since Élie’s been compromised,” he said around his cigar, pausing for Dom and Gerhardt to shake hands. He checked his pocket watch, noting that it was already close to noon.

Eames admired his own reflection in the spoon for his tea. Bernard Miles was a gruff man, with thick, dark stubble shading his chin and covering the scar that was carved from his jaw into his hairline. He was the opposite of the German man. Bernard’s eyes had seen too much of war while reporting from the colonies. His body was weathered, chiseled and solid after two decades of traveling. Gerhardt, on the other hand, showed his age in the way his eyes widened with open excitement and subdued wonder as he listened to Bernard speak. His face was clean-shaven, his body fit and slim under his crisp autumn clothes.

“I see you are married, Mr. Deneuve,” Gerhardt inquired, eyeing Dom’s wedding band.

“Yes,” Dom nodded, his French only slightly less accented than Gerhardt’s. “Although, troubling times to be a newlywed, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, sir—Oh, it almost slipped my mind. I have the documents you asked for, Bernard.” He patted the fine, leather satchel in his lap.

“Excellent, son.” Eames couldn’t help but chuckle a little, watching Gerhardt coolly bum a lighter off of Dom for his cigarette. “Mr. Sturm,” he teased. “A man ought never to leave his house in the morning without his lighter.”

Gerhardt laughed merrily. “Indeed, and yet, I do the opposite every day, always forgetting mine. Perhaps I should buy a new one, just to keep in my coat pocket.”

“Nonsense,” Eames frowned. Thinking quickly, he reached into his own pocket. “Here, lad, take mine.”

Gerhardt’s brow rose with confused surprise. “I cannot possibly accept, Bernard.”

“’Course you can, which is one of the reasons why I’ve ask to meet with you.” Eames sipped his tea as the waiter brought Gerhardt’s pastry to the table. When he left, Eames continued. “Élie’s arrest has me feeling quite certain that my time is nearing an end, Gerhardt. Very soon, I think, the Gestapo will be on my tail.”

“Now who is speaking nonsense, Bernard?” Gerhardt frowned, crossing his arms. “We’ve all kept our heads down and out of their sights. You’re being paranoid, my friend.”

“Well,” Eames huffed, “I wish to have a plan for if that day comes. I have priceless possessions that need to make their way back home to my Jane and little Stephen. If I ask a favor of you, would you give me your word, Gerhardt?”

“Of course, Bernard,” he said earnestly. “You have been a father and mentor to me like none other, and gave me a chance to prove myself loyal when no one else would. For you…anything.”

“Good. I suspect that the Gestapo would not look twice in your direction, because of your nationality. Therefore, I need you to return my effects back to my family. Now, my clothes, my books, those can all go home in good time, whenever you have the chance, but I would still caution you to leave Paris in the event of my capture whether the Gestapo knows of you or not, Gerhardt. I have a safe in my closet back at my flat. Should the worst happen, I’ll need you to remove that safe before the police can get their hands on it. It is the only real thing of value I have, save for my books.” He smiled. “When it’s been tucked away, Charles will come to collect it within the end of that day. Understood?”

Gerhardt sat up straight, nodding. “Absolutely, Bernard.” He eyed Dom. “You have my word.”

“Perfect, now,” he grunted as he stood, “if you’ll excuse me, Charles and I must run an errand before our meeting this afternoon. We will reconvene at my place, usual time, yes?”

+

 

“He’s prepared to take the safe,” Eames proclaimed, as he entered the bookstore’s storeroom. “Projections were all peaceful on our end. How’re things here with…” he went blank when he took a second to look at Mal and Arthur.

Mal could have been a French movie star sitting at the desk reviewing her maps, and Arthur equally so as he climbed the last few steps down the bookshelf ladder. Neither ever missed an opportunity to dress to perfection.

“Where’s Dom?” Arthur asked, straightening out his waistcoat and jacket.

Eames felt more than a little shabby in his own costume, even though he was forging. He cleared his throat. “He’s off tailing the mark for a while. The meeting should be in half an hour.” He frowned, when Arthur nodded and made quick work of opening a new box. Eames tried to catch Arthur’s eye again, but failed. If only Arthur could be as distracted by Eames as Eames was by Arthur. The man was taking his cover as if it were an actual job, restocking these books. Or rather, hiding, with his tail between his legs still, even though Eames himself was well over their fight.

Eames thought to tease Arthur out of his bad mood, but Arthur was already climbing the ladder again in his finely tailored trousers, and…

“Good,” Eames heard Mal say.

Her heels clicked on the old wooden floor as she walked to the storeroom’s door and slipped into her coat. “Arthur, keep a watch on Gerhardt’s projections. Look for key behavioral shifts. At sundown, close the store. We will return through the back, so lock the front doors.”

“You’re not staying?” Eames glanced from Mal to Arthur but his back was turned to his stack of books again.

Mal took Eames’ arm in hers, smiling. “Come, Mr. Eames. We shall take a walk, you and I.”

+

 

A man about Bernard’s age tipped his hat at Mal as she and Eames walked the busy cobbled street.

Mal was teasing Eames with her silence, he knew. She was too straightforward to let them carry on in silence when she had something to say.

In the end, as it always was between Eames and her, he couldn’t wait to start grumbling. “Our boy Arthur sure missed his calling. Who knew someone could stock shelves that efficiently? If he ever decided to carry that passion outside of his work, he’d be truly dangerous.”

Mal hummed, stopping for a moment to admire an old lady’s flower stand.

When she didn’t comment further, he sighed. “I know this is funny, since I’m pretending to be your grandfather, and I know I’ll sound like a timid little boy when I ask this, but…seeing as how the two members of our team who would actually judge me aren’t here now… Did Arthur say anything to you, about me?”

Mal smiled as they continued walking. “Of course not. I’m sure he’s having quite a fit back in that storeroom, wondering what we’re saying about him now. He still thinks you’re upset with him and he’s burying his feelings under his work, that much is obvious. You two are very much like school children, but school children are at least brave enough to pass notes in class to each other.” She shook her head. “You both need to let go of the past and start fresh. It is the only way, Eames.”

He snorted and chuckled. “Arthur doesn’t understand the concept. And you know, not everything is always going to be my fault, not everything is now. I’m trying, Mal. I’ve been trying for a long time. He has no idea how hard it’s been for… I’ve had to celebrate the first six months of my sobriety alone. Not once did he call, and yet…” He sighed, flustered.

She squeezed his arm, remembering the worst of Eames’ late night phone calls. Neither Arthur nor her husband knew. She’d kept Eames afloat a hundred or so miles away over cell sites. “Phillipa will be three soon. Arthur still has no idea what to do around her. What if he picks her up and drops her accidentally, what if he gives her the wrong foods and she becomes sick, and on and on. He’s filled his head with worrying that he will do something wrong. So, he panics, and sacrifices the time he could spend learning how to interact with her, and be more comfortable with her, by keeping his distance. Sound familiar?”

Eames scratched his chin. “So what the bloody hell do I do, then? It’s not like I have much experience with serious relationships either.”

“I have tried to encourage him, but I think it will be you who has to drag him forward.”

“God, I’m sure he’ll love that,” he muttered. “Arthur could out-stubborn a mountain into moving before he does.”

Mal couldn’t help but laugh at the image. “Oh Eames, but I know someone who can be even more stubborn than that.” She stared at him pointedly.

Eames quickly looked away, grinning. His cheeks and ears turned pink under Bernard’s stubble. “Alright, fine. Then what?”

“Set goals for what you want and guide him through that,” she answered. “Arthur has no idea what he’s doing and that scares him, so guide him through the steps necessary for him to be the lover you need. I think he’s quite capable of being as gifted in a relationship as he is with his work.”

Eames nodded, considering Mal’s advice. “Makes perfect sense.”

“First, let him know that you’re not angry, when you return from this meeting, so he’ll stop guilting himself. Then _you’ve_ got to stop guilting yourself for the past as well, when we are returned to the real world. Once you let go of that baggage, I feel things will be better. And the moment he sees that things are better, he will stop panicking.”

“ _In theory_.”

“In theory,” Mal agreed.

A soldier made a show of watching Mal walk past him, but she paid him no mind. When she caught the eyes of three other men, she smiled. “Well, at least I know now what Gerhardt’s type of lady looks like.”

“Going to do a little extracting of your own, Mal?”

Her smile turned sheepish. “It would be hard not to.”

“Your Dom will be devastated if you steal the show.”

“I only wish to have a little chat with Mr. Sturm, to see what my grandfather saw. He was a philosophy student here, and an avid reader like my grandfather. I wonder how it must have felt being a young man on the opposite side of his country.”

“He seemed awfully chipper at the café, although that might have been the pastry talking. You really do know how to craft excellent dream foods, Mal.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “But look at the projections of the soldiers, their faces.”

“Yes,” he observed. “They’re all… well, not exactly staring, but those glares are pretty severe.”

“Accusing,” she supplied.

“Accusing Gerhardt? Of betrayal.”

“Precisely.”

“Mr. Sturm is a rather tormented man,” Eames nodded. “Understandable.”

 

They met Dom a block from Bernard’s flat. Eames checked his forge in a storefront window next door before heading up the stairs round the back of the building.

+

 

Eames could see now why Arthur always refused to focus on more than his work on a job. Try as he might, Eames couldn’t keep up during the meeting. His mind was back with Arthur in the bookstore, wondering what he was doing or if he was thinking of Eames. He itched to go back so he could see him.

He had to give Gerhardt credit though; the young man was as smart as whip and otherworldly in his efficiency. His documentation of important figures within the Nazi party, where they lived, where they had their meetings, what restaurants they frequented, even down to who they slept with, very well could have rivaled Arthur’s skills.

“Mistrust,” Gerhardt was saying, borrowing Dom’s lighter again, as he leaned on Bernard’s bust replica of Julius Caesar, “is easily bred when one looks like the enemy. I lost nearly every friend I had acquired here when the Nazis arrived in Paris. A few of those friends, I myself had to let go, when not only did they mistake me for a Nazi sympathizer, but they revealed themselves to be in agreement with Hitler’s platform.”

“What inspired you join the resistence?” Mal asked. “I cannot imagine the strength it must have taken to risk some much.”

“I had become dear friends with a professor from Poland who I studied with in Berlin. He was killed by the Gestapo.”

“What about your family back home?” Dom asked.

“They are in raptures over Germany’s successes, however, my family is quite modest. I am the first to have the opportunity to study abroad, and I’m sure they all think that my time in Paris has turned me into a French patriot, which isn’t very far off,” he chuckled, “so…our correspondences always avoid talk of politics. And so,” he said to the cigarette between his fingers, “I have lived as a man without a country all these months.”

Thankfully, Dom and Mal were there to take over while Eames’ thoughts drifted.

“Of course not, Gerhardt,” Mal said, stirring her small cup of tea, “France is your country now.”

Gerhardt smiled with her. “I would like to toast to that.”

Eames sat at the kitchen table smoking a pipe and fiddling with his stubble while Dom continued to talk, long after the meeting was done.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Gerhardt paused his pouring of brandy and scotch that he’d stolen from a Nazi stockpile, “your books that I borrowed, Bernard. I have them in my bag.” He set the glasses on the table between Eames and Dom. “Shall I put them back on the shelf?”

“Sure.” Eames nodded. “This scotch is divine, Gerhardt.” He savored the drink, enjoying the burn. He poured a second. And a third.

His face fell, realizing what he’d done. It was as if his brain had stopped working just long enough for him to blow his sobriety. When he put the glass back on the table, it was already near empty.

Well, he thought with a tired sigh, there goes that. He picked up the scotch bottle, resigning himself to refilling his glass. He shook his head, and was surprised when Dom’s hand eased under his and took the glass away.

“You were going to tell me about how you taught Stephen to ride a bicycle,” Dom pressed gently with sincerity, his meaning clear. “Did he succeed, right off the bat, or did it take time?”

Eames nodded, his gratitude shining past his forge. “Right, Mr. Charles.” He cleared his throat. “Lots and lots of scraped knees and falling down before he got it right.”

“Funny how life works out that way, too, isn’t it?”

"I don't much like your sense of humor, Mr. Charles," he griped, reluctantly smiling.

Mal followed Gerhardt to the bookshelves in the living room.

“I see you and Bernard share a love for classical texts,” she noted, standing beside him. “Descartes, Hegel, Kierkegaard…”

“Maritain, Nietzsche, Blondel…” he added, searching the shelves for the correct placements. “Philosophy is my first love.”

“Do you write?”

“Only reviews of existing theories and such. None of my own theories—not yet, at least.”

“Bernard could assist you in finding a publisher, if this war ever ends, of course. I think he would like very much to have his shelves filled with your books,” she smiled.

His chest swelled with pride, just as she had expected it would. Gerhardt quickly scoffed. “Wouldn’t that be something?” He leaned in close to say, “I have all of his travel books, his photography is magnificent. And the way he dives head first into such danger? I can only dream of possessing such bravery.” He placed another book on the shelf with care for its worn binding. “To have lived the life that he lives, to _be_ Bernard Miles,” he glanced over his shoulder at the man, “we mere mortals could never handle it.”

Mal nodded, “Indeed.”

“Oh, look,” he exclaimed in his hushed voice, reaching for a book on a higher shelf, “he has Saint Augustine in his collection as well.”

She leaned against the shelf, watching the way he leafed through the pages with a childlike excitement to skim the underlined passages and bookmarked pages. “Another favorite?”

He chuckled, “For days when I need to feel my most self-deprecating and repressed.”

Dom studied Eames over his own glass. “How long?”

Eames smiled tiredly at the table. “Not long enough, unfortunately.”

Dom snorted. “You sound like Arthur. No wonder you’re both miserable all the time. You tear yourselves down before anyone else gets a chance to.”

Eames leaned in close, setting down the forge’s pipe. “I seem to remember you having an awfully big hand in his perception of me, Mr. Cobb,” he muttered low. “And his terrible self-esteem has only just begun to wear off on me. I actually quite like myself. And yes, I blame you for his self-criticism as well.”

Dom held up his hands in surrender. “I do what I have to.”

Eames snorted. “You are one ruthless boss, Mr. Cobb.”

“You’ll see. The second Arthur believes in his own talent, he’ll be hightailing it out of Los Angeles, on his own. Can’t have that happen.”

Eames chuckled. “No, no, he’s not going anywhere. Not as long as there’s Mal. So _she’s_ the one you need to focus on, not Arthur.”

He glanced at his wife. “Very true, Mr. Eames.”

Gerhardt tucked the book back in its place. “It can be quite difficult. To live without passion is to _not_ live at all, wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Mallorie?” he asked.

Mal hummed. “Of course I do, but I fear St. Augustine would not. He gave up his passions rather than embrace them.”

“Ah, but not his passion for God. You see, there are good passions and others that are best left…” he glanced to Bernard and then to his feet before looking at Mal again with a faint smile, “best left behind the curtain, so to speak.”

“Are you a pious man, Mr. Sturm?”

“Ha! Wouldn’t my mother be so pleased with me then,” he chuckled.

“But you seem quite pure, in your heart, yes?”

“On the contrary, Ms. Mallorie, I am choking with impurity and imperfection. Sins of the heart and an array of others.”

“Aren’t we all?”

He smiled, kissing her hand. “Our excuse is our youth.” He winked. “Now, if you will pardon me, I have a dinner date I must prepare for.”

+

 

Dom and Mal were still reviewing the extraction plan when they returned to the bookstore that early evening.

Arthur was sitting at the cashier’s table, reading. “Did things go well?” he asked, eyes still on the book. From the deep frown he sported, Eames assumed it must not have been a very good book, or not an easy read.

Either way, Eames took a breath and plucked the book from his hands. At Arthur startled and confused look, Eames pulled him out the backdoor to the alley.

“Eames? What are you—” He stopped when Eames held up his hand.

“You’ve never had problems with telling the truth, but I have. So here goes me being completely honest with you. I drank today,” he blurted out at once. “Thought you should know, granted, I’m not doing this for you—well, a little, mostly, but I’m not supposed to say that—”

“Wait. Eames, what are you talking about? You drink all the ti…” He let it sink in. His brow shot up. “ _Oh_ … Oh, Eames, I…” He rubbed his face, embarrassed. “I have to be the biggest jerk in the entire world.”

“Probably not the biggest, since you’re rather small.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea you were trying again. I could have…” He held open his hands, searching for the rest of his words.

“You could have done what you’ve always done and made it incredibly hard for me,” Eames supplied. He bit his tongue, remembering what Mal had said. “Oh fuck me, that didn’t come out right at all. Wow, sorry.”

But Arthur was already slouched and frowning like an abandoned puppy, shutting down. “No, you’re right.” He covered his face. “You’re completely right.”

“No, really, that was unfair.”

“It was true.”

“Well, then I guess… Now you see why I don’t much like telling the truth, damn it.”

Arthur’s hand found it way on Eames’ arm. Eames doubted if Arthur even noticed.

“How long have you been…”

“Doesn’t matter. I blew it again. I suppose tomorrow will be day number one all over again.”

“Hey,” his grip was firm on Eames’ arms, “it’s okay. At least now I know, and I can help you.”

“Help me? Darling, I don’t want a nurse, I want… Well, I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, this whole time. Just you.” When Arthur lowered his eyes, Eames continued, muttering, “And to be painfully honest again, you are one _incredibly_ difficult man to win over. Jesus Christ, love, I swear. To hell with your parents and their insistence on you being raised with such impossibly high standards.”

Arthur glared, in the way only Arthur could glare when Eames knew he was smiling on the inside.

Eames grinned, happy when Arthur let himself be tugged closer. “Look at you. You would’ve broken a dozen hearts had you actually lived in 1940. Eleven more hearts than you’ve already shattered topside.”

Arthur made a disgusted face. “Please don’t say that, not when you’re… _Mal’s grandfather_.” He shuddered.

“But, darling, Bernard wasn’t a grandfather yet.”

“You— _He_ was almost forty, Eames.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “So vain. You know I don’t shave unless I absolutely must, so my face tends to look just as scruffy as this most of the time.” He laughed when Arthur made another face. “You’re adorable when my grooming scares you, you know that?”

Eames paused. Something about the lighting of the evening and the seclusion of the alley, the way the breeze mused Arthur hair, his slender hand combing through those waves in an attempt to keep them tidy…his open expression…

Arthur felt it too. His dimples kept appearing and disappearing as he tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help it. Even in Eames’ forge, Arthur was standing close and touching Eames’ chest.

He was going to start over-thinking soon, Eames knew. Arthur was about to say or do something to prevent this moment from lasting because it was new and nice, and “new” and “nice” often terrified Arthur. Eames had to put a stop to that.

“Eames, I think we sh—”

“Shut up, Arthur.” He had his hands on Arthur’s neck and his lips pressed to the softest pair he’s ever kissed, and all he could do was wonder why he hadn’t done this sooner.

Arthur tasted like the little peppermints he kept on the inside pockets of his coats and jackets. Eames hadn’t eaten one in two years, not since he’d given the last one he’d had to Arthur on their first job together. That he’d been eating them ever since meant so much more than he could fathom at the moment. Eames had convinced him they were better than chewing gum, and apparently, Arthur agreed. Apparently, Arthur loved them if their taste followed him in dreams, the way Eames surely must have tasted like that cigarette brand Arthur hated.

Whatever Eames’ taste, Arthur chased his mouth for more of it. His kiss was awkward, clumsy with inexperience but determined.

Pulling back, looking at Arthur lean in for another kiss, Eames fell in love with him all over again. “See, darling? That wasn’t so bad.” Eames’ voice was rough as he traced his thumbs over Arthur cheekbones. “Though, I will say, I am certainly happy this didn’t happen in a that washroom in the warehouse.”

Arthur tilted his head. “I don’t know… We’re in a grimy alley and you _are_ still Mal’s grandfather right now.”

“Technicalities, darling, technicalities.” Eames hushed him with another deep kiss. “I only have to forge for a bit longer, and then you can snog me proper.” He squeezed Arthur’s hips.

“Easy cowboy. We _are_ still working.”

“Am I too distracting?”

“Honestly?” Arthur nodded. “Yes. Always.”

Eames wanted to argue that Arthur’s job wasn’t that hard this time around, but he held his tongue and took the compliment as it was. “Fair enough.”

“Let’s make a deal, okay? When the job’s done, then maybe… No, definitely. Definitely, we’ll… We’ll pick things up. Yeah?”

“You want to give us another shot?” He smiled wide behind Bernard’s scruff. “Something tells me you’re not actually Arthur, but a projection from my most fondest dreams.”

“Fuck you,” he laughed.

“Darling, no,” he teased, a little put off by Arthur’s idea of endearing phrases. He supposed Arthur had to start somewhere. “That’s very charming, but we’re not doing that in an _alley_. That’s worse than the washroom.”

Arthur laughed louder and shoved him off. “You never stop, huh? Asshole.” He rolled his eyes, but was still smiling when he started walking back to the door.

Eames reached after him and caught his hand. “One other thing, before I forget—”

“Joseph?” They heard a voice ask low, nearly drowned out by a car horn on the street close by.

Gerhardt wore a peculiar expression as he stepped nearer. “My God, it is you.” He smiled.

Arthur looked from Eames to the mark with a frown. “Pardon?”

Gerhardt chuckled, a little embarrassed. He looked to Eames first. “Forgive me, Bernard, but…” He smiled at Arthur. “You probably don’t remember me. I helped you carry your groceries home after crashing into you on the street, ah, let’s see…several, several days ago?” He looked Arthur over before stating simply, “You look different.”

“I’m sorry. I think you have me mixed up with someone else.” Arthur frowned when Gerhardt’s jovial expression crumbled.

Eames stepped in quickly. “Ah, Gerhardt, today seems to be the day for making a thousand introductions,” he chuckled. “This is Arthur. He works with Mal, you see.”

Gerhardt nodded. He shook Arthur’s hand. “My apologies, Mr. Arthur, I could have sworn…” He shook his head with a small grin. “But, never mind.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Sturm?” Eames asked politely, noting the way the man’s eyes still lingered on Arthur.

“Yes. Right.” He sifted through his satchel. “I was on my way home when I remembered I still had papers for you from this morning.” He handed them to Eames. “I returned to the flat and when no one answered, I remembered you mentioning this place.” He glanced at the side of the building. “I shall have to visit your store sometime, Mr. Arthur, when I’m not so busy.” He flashed a quick smile and nodded at Eames. “Bernard, good evening.”

They watched him round the corner of the alley before hurrying back into the bookstore.

 

Dom paced in the storeroom as Eames and Arthur discussed what had happened. “Do you think it means something?” he asked them.

Arthur shook his head, thinking of the piles of notes and research. “No idea. No one named Joseph showed up in any of the records. He played it off like the guy was just some random acquaintance, but…I feel like it’s more than that. How would his memory recall the name of a random guy off the streets after decades?”

“Yeah,” Eames frowned, “he definitely seemed to know him more than that. He was heartbroken, in fact, when Arthur didn’t recognize him. How much of a resemblance would Arthur need to look like this Joseph person?”

“Not much.” Mal said from her perch on the tabletop. “A similar build, perhaps, eye color, hair color… Much like the dreamscapes we create, Gerhardt’s subconscious would only have to fill in the details.”

Dom nodded. “I say we run with it. If he thinks Arthur’s a friend, it might be the extra push we need to find the exact location of the safe. He’ll trust you.”

Eames balked. “Now you’ve absolutely gone mad, Cobb. You didn’t see the way he looked at Arthur, as if they’d actually had more than one conversation worth remembering. It’s possible Joseph was just an acquaintance, sure, but we have no idea. He said he’d help him with something and had been to his house. None of us knows where that is. It could blow our whole cover.”

“No, not necessarily,” Cobb cut in. “We’ve only got one chance at this.”

“You said this was an easy extraction.”

“Yes, and it could be easier if Sturm has a familiar face around.”

“He got on just fine with Mal. She can go with you.”

“No, Mal is new to him. Like me, she doesn’t have a personal connection to Sturm, but Arthur might.”

“We don’t have time for might,” Arthur cut in, studying his watch. “If the real Gestapo’s going to come looking for Eames at ten o’clock, you need to be at Sturm’s by at least seven-thirty,” he told Dom. “Mal says he has a date, so we’ll just have to work around that. The sooner you’re in and out, the sooner we can get out of here.”

“And where will you be?” Dom asked.

Arthur sighed, glancing at Eames. “Here.”

Dom frowned, but he nodded, understanding. “Fine. I’ll head over to Sturm’s place to wait for him. But if I’m not back before nine, Arthur, I want you on standby. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good.” Dom let Mal help him into his coat and returned her kiss.

Mal walked him to the back door. “Remember to keep an eye on the projections and the subtle changes in your surroundings,” she reminded him, “Let their presence help you in deciphering Gerhardt’s mood so that you can better navigate through his subconscious.”

“Think his mind will the leave the safe’s location out in the open?”

“Perhaps.” She kissed him again before straightening the lapels on his coat. “Focus on the details. Sometimes our secrets may very well be hidden in plain sight. Good luck.”

+

 

From what Dom could see at his café table, Gerhardt’s dinner date was cut short. He checked his watch. He would have plenty of time to extract what he needed.

He blended in with a walking crowd until he neared the entrance to Gerhardt’s flat. When the coast was clear, he took the stairs up to his floor at a run, banging on the door frantically.

Gerhardt was there at once, still halfway out of his coat. “Mr. Charles? What are you doing here?” he asked, startled when Dom shouldered past him into the flat.

“Bernard’s been taken,” he explained. “I ran straight over as soon as I saw the car pull up at his place.”

Gerhardt frowned. “Who else did they take?”

Thinking fast, Dom answered, “Mal and the few others who were with him at his home. We have to go over now. We might not get another shot.”

“Bernard was taken?” Gerhardt asked calmly. “And Mallorie?”

“Yes.”

“And Arthur?”

“He was with me, outside.”

“And where is he now?”

“Back at the bookstore. Now we’ve got to go before…” He stopped his hurried pacing and looked up, past Gerhardt, at the apartment.

Dom’s expression went blank as he took it all in. “Focus on the details,” he muttered to himself, turning to view the rest of the flat. “Right in plain sight.” They had all been blind from the start. “You did it, didn’t you? Bernard trusted you with his life and you turned him in. Why?”

But he never got an answer. Gerhardt grabbed the heavy replica bust of Julius Caesar and bashed it across the back of Dom’s head, knocking him to the ground. He rained down his blows until the bust cracked on the floor.

He whistled as he drug Dom behind a sofa and washed his hands. He gazed at his smug reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Well, well, Oberregierungs und Kriminalrat Traus. You bested a renown spy at his own game and took down his shining new right hand.”

He fixed his hair before slipping back into his coat. “Now, let’s go see about his safe, and his little Jewish whore.”

+

 

Gerhardt’s hands were shaking as he got into his car. The arrest should have happened hours later, but no matter. He’d won. He hadn’t felt this good, this powerful, in what seemed like an incredibly long stretch of time.

The others had said taking down Bernard Miles would be impossible, the end of Gerhardt Traus, and for a while, they could have been right. Bernard was a force of nature, a leader overflowing with easy confidence and control. It was so easy at times for Gerhardt to feel weak and unstable and to want to let himself be caught in Bernard’s current.

He could have, too. Some days, Bernard would look at him and see right through to his pain and insecurities. Some days, Gerhardt wanted nothing more than to beckon him in, to let himself be lead by a much stronger man.

He parked the car in the alley and leaned against the corner, thinking up a plan. Clearly, as Gerhardt had known deep down, being taken under Bernard’s wing would never be the case, not with the growing number of shining stars orbiting the man. Like Charles, and Mallorie, and even…

Joseph. Sweet, kind, shy, little Joseph and all his charming imperfections.

It embarrassed Gerhardt that he hadn’t seen through Joseph’s act before he’d gotten his heart ensnared by the boy. Joseph must have been laughing all evening at Gerhardt’s stupidity. The nerve of that boy, to hold Bernard’s hand without care and without a star on his coat right in front of Gerhardt’s face. He would need thorough correction, that was certain.

And as if Gerhardt had spoken up the devil himself, Joseph was stepping out the backdoor, a stack of broken boxes tucked neatly under his arm. He watched Joseph tie them with a bit of cord as he stepped forward.

Arthur checked his watch again from his perch at the top of the shelf ladder. It was getting late. Mal and Eames were playing a game of cards in the storeroom, having long since grown bored of waiting, but it wasn’t time yet for Dom to return.

He dusted most of the tabletops, swept the floors, and was now folding empty boxes, busying himself with more menial tasks, thinking— _scaring_ himself. In a few hours, maybe less time than that, he’d be waking up from this dream with…with a boyfriend.

Some days he couldn’t even admit to himself that he was gay, and now…now he would be starting his first relationship after fighting it for what felt like forever. And judging by the way Eames acted around him, the way Arthur acted around Eames… This could very well be the one and only relationship he would ever have—not that he bought into true love or whatever, but still, _still_ this could be big.

It was maddening to think about. Eames? Of all people, Eames. Some people went their entire lives without finding ‘the one,’ and yet Eames was really the only person Arthur had felt this way for at all. And that Eames felt the same about Arthur? He couldn’t help but smile to himself, knowing if anyone saw him now, they’d think he was crazy, tying boxes in the alley with a goofy grin on his face.

He stood and turned, and was so spooked that someone _was_ standing nearly on top of him, he lashed out with a hook and a jab and brought the man down with the back of his elbow.

Gerhardt landed on his ass with a surprised grunt and fell back, blinking up to the sky and then to Arthur.

“Oh my god,” Arthur panicked, realizing he’d just knocked their eighty-nine year old mark to the ground. Dom was going to tear him a new one for sure. He hurried over to help Gerhardt to his feet. “Are you okay? I am so, so sorry, Mr. Sturm. You startled me, it was just a reflex.” He started to brush the dirt off of Gerhardt’s coat, using his pocket square to clean the busted lip he’d given him, but paused. “What are you doing here? Where’s…Charles?”

Gerhardt had to take a minute to get his lungs working again, but the second he did, he lunged with his handkerchief, covering Arthur’s mouth and nose, taking him by surprise. He used his forward momentum to push Arthur against the wall at his back, his arms locked around his neck.

“I never wanted things to be this way, Joseph,” he bit out, struggling to keep Arthur in his grip. “But no matter. I’ve brought down your leader and now I plan to reward you for your performance in front of Bernard. Did you think it would be so easy to hide from me? Did you think it wouldn’t enrage me that you would put on such an innocent front, playing the sweet lamb when all along you were resistance scum and Bernard’s whore.” He drove his knee into Arthur’s gut. “Easy, my Joseph, stop fighting.” He hushed Arthur, holding him through his struggling. “You’ve run from me for long enough. Relax, now. You have nowhere else go but with me, where you belong.”

Arthur’s fingers pried into his hand and arm, trying to free himself and not breathe in the chemical on the cloth all the same.

Only, the mark was persistent. Arthur managed to separate himself from the wall, but it was too late. He was slipping. If he could just get to the door, or yell out.

Gerhardt followed him to the ground, waiting for him to either hold his breath until he passed out or breathe in the chloroform.

The chloroform won. He cradled Arthur’s head in his lap, brushing his hair back from his sleeping face. “That’s right, my Joseph. I found you. And I’m going to make you pay for running away from me.”

+

 

+++

**_Paris. November 5, 1940_ **

The storefront for medicine rations had been changed again. Joseph felt as if he’d circled the city three times and still, nothing.

He hiked his paper bag of groceries rations higher on his hip, hoping no one noticed that his bag was bulkier than everyone else’s. It would surely raise eyebrows—A young, unmarried man, a star on his coat, and what, special favors for more food than the rest? He contemplated slipping into an alley and getting rid of the books he’d taken.

Three books, salvaged from a kindling pile. His one and only act of rebellion in his entire life. The fearful child within was sure that God was going to burn a hole in the bottom of this bag, or the soles of his worn shoes, if he didn’t find this new location befor—

“ _Uff!”_

—He and the man who’d run into him both rose to their feet with sore bottoms. Joseph rushed to dust off the man’s coat, apologizing profusely.

The man returned a handsome smile and a steady hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “It’s quite alright,” he chuckled, his German accent distorting his French. “I’m sure it was my fault.” He extended a hand. “My name is Gerhardt Sturm.”

Joseph’s blush evaporated, all color draining from his face upon hearing the man’s accent. “Oh no, oh no, no, no. I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he rushed, dropping his eyes, “It was my fault, Mr. Sturm. Please, I—please, don’t be—Please, forgive me, sir.”

Gerhardt’s light brow shot up in amusement and surprise. “You think I’m—” he pointed to his own chest with an innocent act so polished he could have been an actor. “No, I’m…I’m just a student. I’m not—No, no, I’m not one of them,” he whispered. “I despise the occupation _and_ the regime as much as the next man.”

Joseph’s mouth fell open, his blush returning. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you… I’m sorry.” He turned awkwardly to pick up his spilled bag. His shoulders slumped when he saw that the bag was torn beyond use after hitting the pavement. The precious bottle of cooking oil was shattered. Joseph would have cried if he were alone. It was impossible to know when he’d be able to acquire another bottle. It could be months.

Gerhardt, in his crisp suit and heavy coat knelt beside him. “I should help you, as I am the cause of this.”

“Oh no, you’ll get your clothes dirty.” He looked around the busy street, making sure no soldiers saw them. “We could both get into trouble.”

“Who would I be if I did not help,” he paused, seeing one of the small, coverless books. “Ah, I see. You are not supposed to have these, considering…” he glanced at Joseph’s crude yellow star patch and smiled again, winking. “I think I have a better copy of this somewhere in my flat, if you want it. These ones here simply won’t do.” All three books were missing their covers and marked, torn, their binding falling away in his hand. He slipped them into his leather satchel.

Joseph watched the taller man stand with his rations cupped in his arms. “Oh no, I couldn’t accept them. I’m sure they’re in perfect condition, but…” He eyed Gerhardt’s satchel where the books were hidden from view. “I—You’re right. I feel awfully foolish now, for taking them. It’s just that…” He let his words fall away again.

“You were in school too, yes? But you are no longer allowed to study, because you’re Jewish,” he answered his own question when Joseph nodded at the ground. “What were you studying?”

“Ballet,” he answered, smiling brightly as if he were talking about a lover. “I was a dancer, if you can believe that with my clumsiness. I wasn’t the best, but I love ballet. That, and literature. I was learning English, as well. My dream was to—” He glanced at Gerhardt, who watched him intently. For a moment, it seemed as though the man’s eyes smoldered. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I should go. Thank you for your help, Mr. Sturm.” He reached out for his things, but was a little surprised and wary when Gerhardt stepped back.

“I’ll carry these for you, if you don’t mind.” He smiled again, his most charming. “Where to?”

Joseph thought it over as quickly as he could and decided, if Gerhardt was a student like him, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let the man walk with him. “Okay, I suppose.”

“Would you happen to have a light? I have a terrible habit of never having one myself.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Sturm. I don’t smoke.”

“I can see that you must have been quite a talented dancer. Your posture is perfect,” Gerhardt observed, watching Joseph walk, “if you don’t mind me saying.”

He gave a little smile over his shoulder. Like a secret Gerhardt might have missed if not for the little dimples in Joseph’s cheeks. If Gerhardt hadn’t been smitten before, watching Joseph run his various errands up and down the street, he certainly was now.

“I was on my way to collect my father’s medicine, but now I’m wondering if the shipment is late.” Joseph frowned.

Gerhardt cared nothing for the boy’s father. “I’m sure that this is the case.”

“This one here,” Joseph pointed to an old two story flat squeezed in between a row of vine-covered apartments. He stopped at the front steps, but didn’t lead Gerhardt any further. “I just have to find my key, but thank you for helping me. I appreciate it, Mr. Sturm.”

“Good, good.” Reluctantly he handed Joseph his things, running the address through his mind a dozen times to remember. “Perhaps I will see you again soon. You never told me your name.”

“Joseph. Benoit.” The little smile was there and gone in a flash. “Good bye, Mr. Sturm.”

Gerhardt nodded and walked a few quick paces up the street. He hid in a crowd of people gathering in front of a tree. He watched Joseph turn and hurry down the block, narrowly missing Gerhardt as he adjusted his supplies and searched for his key. Curious, Gerhardt followed several paces behind and was surprised when Joseph climbed the stairs up to the second story of an even older building.

Gerhardt huffed in amusement and shook his head. “Clever boy.”

*

Gerhardt paced his flat with a cigarette crushed between his angry lips.

He was supposed to be out with the boys tonight before he began his new assignment to take down the British spy, Bernard Miles, tomorrow. It was something of a tradition now, to get drunk on champagne and terrorize the brothels until the early hours of the morning. He’d gone with them before, several times, just to drink himself into a stupor so severe he couldn’t possibly get hard for the girls.

And wasn’t that the blame? The booze, not… _the other thing_. The thing he dared not even to say in his own mind for fear that it would really, truly be _real_.

What a shame it was, what a mockery of life, to be the very best of his division, the best of the Gestapo young blood, to be praised for his heroic deeds when he’d slaughtered the leader of the resisters in Poland, to have power over so many, to have his looks, and his pick of any girl, only to fall prey to a Jew boy who had no idea who Gerhardt truly was.

Gerhardt could hardly blame himself, in the end, for returning to Joseph’s block again and again, waiting for the boy, finding this excuse or that. Joseph let him every time. Except for today. He’d waited and waited and the boy never showed. It was only by chance that Gerhardt saw him cross the street further down. He was playing with Gerhardt, getting him hot, getting him to pine through every hour of every day, just to disappear on him and leave Gerhardt lost. He would confront the boy tomorrow morning.

Just thinking of the shock that would distort the boy’s face, it made Gerhardt breathless. Those brown eyes going wide, his cheeks coloring, the jump in his throat when he’d swallow.

He leaned against the wall in his kitchen, his hand diving into his trousers. Seeing the spilt oil on Joseph’s hands when he’d dropped his bag of rations, Gerhardt remembered his incredible show of strength to refrain from fucking the boy right there on the street. And he could have. He could have drug him into the alley, killed him to keep him quiet after, like that boy in Poland…

Only, Gerhardt was sickened at the thought of touching him all the same. No Jew could be that kind, that noble, that innocent, and pretty, without it being a ruse. Gerhardt would find proof of Joseph’s trickery soon enough. Any thoughts of the boy would cease then. He was sure this time.

For several days, he’d asked Joseph to his flat, only for the boy to refuse and flash one of his smiles. He’d gotten Gerhardt so riled up with that smile, Gerhardt wanted to cut it off he face as a desperate attempt to protect himself. There was never an end to the things his mind conjured upon seeing that smile.

His release shook him of a sudden, spilling down his hand and wetting his trousers. He felt dirty, _used_ now. He flipped his kitchen table in a fit of rage.

*

Joseph heard the whistled tune before seeing its source. The cold bitter winds had him shielding his eyes when he stepped outside the shop, which was why he nearly collided into the whistling man.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized to the man’s feet. His heart sank. “Mr. Sturm.” He took an involuntary step away and felt the store’s brick wall meet his back.

“Joseph. This is quite a surprise. I was beginning to worry. I hadn’t seen you in days.” He smiled.

Joseph could only smile politely in response, trying to hide his growing discomfort. It was one thing to have a hunch that Gerhardt was stalking him, after weeks of impossible “coincidences,” but then to avoid the man, and have him find Joseph anyways? It was unsettling. “It’s good to see you too, Mr. Sturm.” He moved awkwardly to take a step on to the sidewalk and leave.

He was more than a little surprised when Gerhardt didn’t move back to let him pass. Instead, the man simply stepped closer and braced his hand on the stone next to Joseph’s arm.

“How is your father? I see you’ve found the right store.”

Joseph frowned, looking everywhere but at the man face. He’d never noticed how much bigger Gerhardt was before. He tugged the collar on his father’s old thin coat tighter against the wind. He was already shivering. This winter was going to be a rough one.

“He’s not well, and they still don’t have what he needs. If you’ll excuse? I mustn’t keep him alone for too long.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?” He didn’t mean to sound so impatient.

“I was wondering if you would accompany me to dinner. It’s getting late, and it’s not far. I would love very much to have your company this evening.”

“I…” This was what Gerhardt had been trying to do all this time? Joseph managed to close his mouth, blushing terribly, his eyes still wide. “No. I…I can’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Sturm, but I’m…” He was distracted by the glint of Gerhardt’s silver lighter when the man pulled it out for his cigarette.

For a moment, the whole world stopped.

For a moment, Joseph knew that he was dead, that he was rotting, decaying right here, on the street.

The SS insignia was clear as day on the shiny metal case. His eyes were stuck on the lighter for what felt like an eternity in hell.

At last, his eyes met Gerhardt’s. The man was still smiling back at him, but there was something different. He had nothing to hide from Joseph now, no secret, no more games. And to think, all this time, Joseph had thought having a stalker was bad, but Gerhardt was a Nazi on top of that. And right now, he smiled the smile of a winner, victorious. Joseph wanted to melt into the wall’s cracks and disappear.

He only realized that he wasn’t breathing when Gerhardt’s hands began to rub soothingly up and down his arms, like Joseph was a child waking up from a nightmare. But Joseph’s nightmare had only just begun, he knew.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he quietly begged, hyperventilating. “I have done nothing wrong, I swear, I swear it.”

Gerhardt shushed him as two elderly Jewish women passed them, their eyes on the ground ahead. “Calm down, my dear.”

“Why did you… All this time? Following me, and… Why were you _kind_ to me? I don’t understand. I’m not—” His breath stopped again the instant Gerhardt’s expression became annoyed, irritated.

Gerhardt huffed. “It’s only dinner, my Joseph, not the camps,” he teased.

“Camps? What do you—”

“Hush,” he ordered suddenly causing Joseph to flinch. “Control yourself, please.” He let the wind carry the smoke away. He puffed down his cigarette and watched Joseph shiver from more than just the autumn chill. “Better. Now, will you join me, or—”

“Yes. Yes,” he answered quickly. “Anything,” he regretted saying as soon at the word tumbled from his lips.

“Good. But, first.” He pealed out of his coat. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I allowed you to catch a chill? You’re shivering. Put this on.”

His eyes went wider still. “Mr. Sturm. I…” but it was too late. He caught a glimpse of the Gestapo pin on the coat’s lining and froze, his ears ringing. It was loose on his shoulders and covered his star effectively. Joseph feared his knees would buckle under the weight of the heavy coat. He could feel it, the silver lighter, heavy in the inside pocket. His lungs couldn’t find enough air to breathe when Gerhardt pulled his scarf around his neck, tight, like a boa constrictor had taken hold of him. He wanted to scream as he quietly panicked, in disbelief over what was happening and what was bound to happen next.

*

Gerhardt felt a sick sense of pride seeing Joseph in his fine coat. No blasphemy against the Nazi party had ever looked so good.

Entering the dark lounge, Gerhardt placed his hand at the small of Joseph’s back, ushering him further inside. “I hope you’re ready for a real treat.” He stopped Joseph from removing his coat.

The lounge looked seedy yet elegant with the haze of smoke and a beautiful singer at the piano. Joseph didn’t notice at first until three men in Nazi uniforms walked by. Every was table occupied with what looked like high ranking officials and policemen and their choice of young women. They laughed merrily and ate their fill as if the people who lived in this city weren’t out there hungry, as if people weren’t disappearing. The place was toxic.

Gerhardt’s eyes never left Joseph’s face in their secluded corner in the back of the lounge. He sat close, though not close enough to reveal his attraction. “Feeling better?”

Joseph nodded, but couldn’t speak. Gerhardt ordered for both of them, still watching Joseph as he stared down at his food, unmoving.

“I apologize. This is not a kosher meal, but I supposed you know how to make due?” He smirked at his own joke. “Go on. It’s not poisoned, Joseph. I insist.”

“Who are you?” he whispered, needing to know suddenly what level of danger he was in, though that level was always quite high in general. What men passed their table hardly gave Gerhardt a second glance, but Gerhardt sat near Joseph with his confidence only amplified from that of a few days ago. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Joseph, please. What a question,” he chided. “Eat,” he ordered. “It would offend me if you let that lovely steak go to waste.”

Gerhardt’s gentle laugh made Joseph lightheaded. If he touched his fork he might vomit, but he was starving. Oh, how he was starving.

“You give your ticket rations to your father, for his health,” he observed, eyes on Joseph’s thin hands as they shoveled another hasty cut of steak into his mouth, “even though it’s still hardly enough for one man, let alone the two of you. Is that correct?” He sipped his wine with something akin to pity, like a leopard feeling sorry that its prey was too weak to give a better chase, but knowing all the same that the kill would taste just as good. “Careful, Joseph, not so fast. You’ll choke, and wouldn’t that make for quite a scene. My Joseph, you hardly give yourself a chance to taste the rich flavors before it’s gone down your throat.”

His appetite vanished as fast it had appeared when Gerhardt moved closer, his hand on Joseph’s knee.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Joseph. I want so badly just to—” A woman’s laughter at another table cut through the general noise and music. Gerhardt blinked and quickly let go of Joseph’s jaw. He couldn’t believe it. He’d almost ruined everything, so close to kissing the boy in front of everyone. He ran his hand over his face as if he’d come down with a tired spell.

Joseph was too shocked to make sense of it, of any of this. Tears prickled his eyes as he looked out over the happy faces of the chatting men and women seated nearby, all drunk off of booze and power. If Gerhardt simply wished, if he took back his coat, Joseph would never leave this place alive. He wanted to run and never stop running. The heavy coat on his shoulders was more a burden than the star had been, like he was being swallowed by a whale.

"Mr. Sturm...please."

Gerhardt's hand crept further up his thigh under the table, a forced smile on his lips. "Please, what, my dear?"

"I'm uncomfortable."

Gerhardt's brow rose. "I see." But he didn't remove his hand. "See that man other there, serving those tables. Do you find him more attractive than me?"

Joseph frowned, confused. "I... No. I don't know." He shrugged, swallowing hard. "I never look at anyone that way."

His eyes flashed. "Of course you do. Everybody does, but particularly you, with your tempting smile and lovely face. You want him to fuck you, don’t you? With his dark hair and wide shoulders. You think he would make a far better lover,” he hissed into Joseph’s ear. “You can't stand me, can you?"

He blushed furiously at Gerhardt’s vulgarity, wiping his eyes before someone could see his tears. "May I go home now? My father needs me. Please." He held his breath, fearing the worst until Gerhardt finally relented.

They didn’t get far outside. Gerhardt’s tight grip bruised his arm as he was led through the back door of the lounge into the alley.

Gerhardt pushed him to the wall, instantly at his neck, his hands groping in the dark. Joseph felt a sob bubbling up to the surface and turned his face away only to have Gerhardt grab his jaw and swallow the pained sound. Joseph wanted nothing more than to pull away, but was too afraid to even try as the man devoured his mouth.

He felt soulless when Gerhardt at last removed his tongue and let go of Joseph’s face, still caging him against the wall.

Gerhardt cursed under his breath, his face flashing with a rage Joseph had never seen as he quickly scanned the alley to make sure no one was there to see them. “Look what you made me do,” Gerhardt hissed, before catching himself.

Joseph felt like a massive weight lift from his shoulders when Gerhardt took him out of the coat and slipped back into it himself.

“I could help you, with your father, you know.” At Joseph’s nervous glance, he explained. “I have strings that I have yet to pull. I can give you food, better shelter and protection, and your father’s precious medicine. I can do all this for you, if you can do for me.”

He had the lighter out again for his cigarette. Joseph watched the little lightning bolt SS and eagle appear and disappear back into Gerhardt’s pocket. He swallowed nervously before meeting his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he spoke low. “You were so kind to me before, but… you’re one of them. Do you… Do you truly think of me as poison, like the others do?”

Gerhardt puffed on his smoke. “Yes. Your people are the scum of the earth, but,” he grabbed Joseph’s face again when the boy looked away in tears again, “you, I could change.” He could control Joseph. The boy was weak, he had no power save for Gerhardt’s heart, and in Gerhardt’s hands, he could keep the boy on a leash. Joseph would be his little secret for as long as he wanted, then.

Joseph saw only mania in the man’s eyes. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Gerhardt,” he tried. “You could still be a good person. I know it’s in you, just…let me go. Please.”

“You don’t want what I’ve offered?”

“I have nothing to give in return.”

“You have plenty,” he whispered low at Joseph’s ear, letting his hands roam again. He wanted to kiss him again and wrap his hands around the boy’s throat all the same. It was maddening. “You should have considered the consequences of playing with a man’s heart the way you have—”

“I haven’t! I had no idea you—”

“You little liar, you snake.” Gerhardt had his hands around Joseph’s throat. “Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter now. All that counts is your answer. I can have your father taken away, you would never see him again. Is that what you want? No? Then it would be in your best interest, Joseph, to give me what I want.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it.” He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Gerhardt’s smile of triumph. “Okay.”

+

Gerhardt stretched under the covers in his bed. He lit another cigarette as he watched Joseph redressing in the lamplight. The boy was still crying. He always cried after, but at least his trembling wasn’t as severe as it had been that first week.

“Your skin is lovely always, Joseph, but especially so in this light,” he murmured. “One day, I think, you’ll have to show me what these dancer’s legs can do besides wrap around my neck,” he teased. “Perhaps I’ll get you a new identity so you can dance on a stage again, hm?” He sighed when Joseph wouldn’t speak or look at him. “Joseph, I am being nice in letting you go to your home tonight, but I can certainly keep you here, if you test me.” He reached out to touch one perfectly bruised thigh as Joseph slipped his feet into his trousers.

Joseph gasped in pain and clutched his bruised wrist. He pulled his pants up over his legs more gingerly.

“Give it here,” Gerhardt ordered in a soft voice, pleased when Joseph obeyed. “Your lovely wrist shouldn’t be broken,” he observed, “but it would feel much better with something cold over it. That’s too bad. I’m sorry.” He kissed it before letting it go. “You know I never mean to be so rough with you, but…someone like you, I just can’t help myself. You are so very breakable. And, I suppose, no animal is tamed with soft touches and kind words, are they, Joseph?”

When Joseph still refused to speak, Gerhardt sat up behind him, stilling his hands as they moved to button his shirt. He kissed a trail up the back of his neck and bit down hard when Joseph tried to move away.

Joseph was lacing his shoes when Gerhardt suddenly decided, “Stay.”

Joseph at last looked at him, his expression angry and afraid. “No.” He stood, holding his wrist. “You gave me your word. I’m tired.”

Gerhardt’s eyes narrowed. “I take my word back,” he stated, his brow rising in a sign of challenge. “Don’t be petulant with me, Joseph. Come back to bed.”

Joseph was shaking again. He glanced at the rumpled space on the bed beside Gerhardt where he’d been held down. “I can’t. I must go home.” He stepped back when Gerhardt stood.

“Joseph. Think of your father,” he warned.

Joseph took another step back. “I _am_ thinking of my father. You…you promised me that you would help us if I let you…” he pointed at the bed. “And you’ve brought me here for almost two weeks now, but nothing has changed. The things you’ve done, I can’t…I can’t…”

Gerhardt’s temper flared. “Don’t be stupid, Joseph. I _have_ helped you. You have no idea what’s happening in this city, but I do. I’ve kept you and your father safe.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. You tricked me.”

“How dare you, in my own home, accuse me of such, you little whore! I will not ask you again. Come here at once, or I will drown you in your precious father’s blood.”

“No. I can’t,” he stammered, backing away. “I can’t do that again. I’ll go crazy, if I have to.”

Gerhardt lunged, catching his arm. He pulled him to the bed. “You already belong to me, so stop fighting,” he growled.

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth that Joseph shoved him off with strength that surprised Gerhardt. Joseph was out the flat in the blink of an eye.

There was no point to giving chase when he was naked. He let the boy go.

Gerhardt picked up Joseph’s forgotten coat. His key and identification papers where still in the pocket. Tomorrow, when he brought Joseph back here, the boy would pay for this, Gerhardt was sure of it.

*

Joseph and his father moved in with his widowed aunt several blocks away that very night.

They didn’t understand why Joseph refused to venture outside anymore. They were convinced that relocating was enough to free him from the Nazi who’d tried to take him away, but Joseph knew better. His father was sick, his aunt frail and thinner than he’d ever seen her. Both didn’t get out much, didn’t pay any attention to the news. They knew nothing of the threat and danger Joseph faced just standing in front of the window for too long, fearing that Gerhardt would be standing outside and see him.

But then weeks passed without incident. The winter was here. Their supplies were near empty.

The neighbors had long since stopped being hospitable to Joseph and his family. For love of his aunt and pity for his father, they’d shared their food and offered them their hand-me-downs. Now, they simply eyed Joseph like he was a criminal, someone on the run, and they’d be damned before getting into whatever trouble followed Joseph here. He couldn’t blame them.

His heart hammered out of his chest the whole way from the apartment to the market and back as the sun went down that evening. His aunt had given him her husband’s thicker coat, his hat, and old scarf for warmth and cover. It still smelled faintly of the pipe the man used to smoke.

The light outside his aunt’s door was out. He made a mental note to replace the lamp’s oil in the morning as he bent down to retrieve his fallen keys. They were wet with a cold, dark liquid when he picked them up, noticing that more of the black substance was creeping from under the door. Joseph could see that the candles were out inside as well. He quickly got in, locked the door behind him, and reached for his matches.

“Allow me,” the man’s voice said at the table behind him.

Joseph turned quickly and nearly slipped. Gerhardt turned on the lantern at the kitchen table, sitting in one of the old chairs. He put a cigarette in his mouth. “I missed you, my sneaky little darling.”

Joseph dropped his bag. The dark liquid on his hands was red in the light. He was standing in the pool of blood that came from his father. Gerhardt had planted his chair right over of the old man’s battered body. His aunt still sat at the table with a hole in her chest.

A wounded sound escaped Joseph’s lips. The chair creaked when Gerhardt shifted, relaxed and cleaning his pistol. “I don’t like this apartment as much as your old one. With the front door opening into the kitchen, one hardly has a chance to defend his or herself from an attack.” He put the gun down on the table with a soft click. “Be still, Joseph. Breathe. I’m sure they don’t blame you, even though this could have been prevented had you stayed with me.”

Joseph sank to his knees, his hands in his father’s blood, hearing none of Gerhardt’s words. He stared down at the blood until his vision blurred.

“I’m afraid,” Gerhardt stood, “that I have lusted for you long enough, my sweet Joseph.” He pulled out his handkerchief and quickly stuffed Joseph’s mouth, blocking his screams. He wrestled him to the table. He got a rope pulled tightly around the boy’s neck, hearing a teacup break under his elbow. “I promised you,” he whispered, trapping his hands. “Now, you will never run from me again. I will finally be free of your spell.”

His face dripped with sweat as he held Joseph under his grip. He wanted to let his eyes drift shut and simply listen as Joseph fought for air, but he wanted to see it too, see the life drain from the devil’s face, feel his body go limp. He kissed Joseph’s tears across his cheeks. Joseph managed to free his hands and grabbed the German’s wrists. For a moment, Gerhardt panicked. What if Joseph was sorry for leaving? What if killing him was a mistake? But Joseph’s grip loosened. He went silent and still.

Gerhardt didn’t notice his own tears until now as he sobbed into Joseph’s hair. He let go of the rope and carefully slipped his arms around Joseph’s skinny body, holding him tightly. He pressed his face to Joseph’s pale cheek, until all the warmth was gone…

+++

+

 

Gerhardt parked in front of the abandoned storefront and took a moment to light his cigarette, waiting for the street to clear out.

He was surprised to find Arthur already stirring awake when he at last opened the trunk of the car. Arthur blinked slowly, his movements clumsy as he tried to free his hands.

“You can stop wasting your energy, Joseph.” He pulled Arthur out far enough to get a decent grip on him before hoisting him over his shoulder. “You punch harder than a man twice your size, but I assure you, you won’t escape these binds. I take pride in my rope tying.” He took his time climbing the steps to the empty apartment over the closed store.

He dumped Arthur on the floor long enough to make sure the door was locked behind them. “My men killed the family that once lived in this place and worked downstairs.” He dragged Arthur by the rope around his knees to the last bedroom down the hall.

“So,” Gerhardt said, clasping his hand. His smile was back in full force, “here we are at last. Let’s put this home to good use, what do you say?”

Arthur watched him from where he was left in a corner as Gerhardt retrieved a large medical bag from under the bed. He turned it upside down on the sheets. He had scalpels, scissors, and all manner of surgical instruments and placed each one in a neat line on the adjacent vanity table.

The second he removed his necktie from Arthur’s mouth, Arthur hissed, “Go to hell,” and spit in Gerhardt’s face.

“My goodness, Joseph—”

“I already told you, I don’t know who Joseph is—”

“Stop lying to me, damn it!” Gerhardt exploded with anger, his hands balled into tight fists. He took a moment to breathe and regain control. “You know, I once liked your mouth, and that lovely smile, but you’ve gone wild with your tongue, Joseph.” He stood, wiping his face. He eyes his tools, picking up the smallest one. “Don’t worry, my sweet. I will fix that problem first, before we move forward with anything else.”

+

 

It felt good to be in his own skin again, but something was bothering Eames. “What’s the time?”

“Close to nine. It shouldn’t have taken Dom this long.”

He nodded, distracted. “I agree. Let’s see what’s happened.”

She slipped into her coat. “What’s wrong?”

He was staring into the open space, searching for something. “Do you feel that?”

A second, stronger tremor ran through the floor. Mal paled. “Where is Arthur?”

Eames hurried from the table to search, Mal close on his heels as a few books fell from the shelves.

He was getting frustrated as they cleared the building. They stood in the alley. “What the hell is going on? Arthur wouldn’t just disappear for a walk or something, he should be here.”

Mal held up her hand to quiet him. “It’s stopped.” The ground was still and the air no longer hazy, as if nothing strange had happened.

They both saw the pocket square near Arthur’s neatly tied boxes at the same time.

Eames called out for him again.

“Eames, look. There is blood on this.”

He knelt beside her. “Do you think a crazy, random projection might have…” The ground shook again. Cracks began to form up the side of the buildings and down the alley. Once again, the tremors were over almost as fast as they started. “Something’s happened, something…really wrong. Arthur’s dream is collapsing, which would mean—”

“No, not collapsing, not entirely. See? It’s stopped again.”

“Then what the bloody hell is happening?” He wanted to punch a hole in the wall. Luckily, Mal was there to keep him grounded.

“Come on, Eames. We have to get Dom.”

“No offense Mal, but to hell with your husband. Arthur’s… Wait, you don’t think it could be…”

“There is only one way to find out. We have no answers here.” Mal pulled Eames to his feet impatiently. She didn’t wait to see if he would follow.

 

Several shudders from the buildings clattered to the sidewalk below as another tremor rumbled underfoot. It didn’t miss their notice that the projections, all once stone-faced with judging eyes, were relaxed, happy even, as they chatted and dined at the cafés up and down the street. They walked faster.

Eames kicked the door in when no one answered.

“Dom?” Mal called out as soon as they were inside. “Dom?” She could see his shoe peeking out from behind the sofa. She rushed to him at once. “My god, what happened here? He’s…he’s still breathing, Eames. Should I wake him up?”

He nodded. “Let the poor man out of his misery.” Eames stood just inside the threshold of the apartment, feeling more than a little off. “Mal, did you…” He looked around them slowly. “Where are we?”

Mal glanced over with worry and tears in her eyes. She took a quick sweep of the flat. She gasped. “Eames, I… I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” He stepped in carefully. “This is Gerhardt’s flat, but…it’s _mine_ —I mean, it’s Bernard’s. It looks exactly like Bernard’s, Mal.”

“But why? How?” Mal whispered, still cradling Dom’s head. “Neither the photos nor my design looked anything like this… Unless…”

“This is his subconscious,” Eames marveled, putting the pieces together. “His subconscious has warped this place into Bernard’s. He didn’t take your grandfather’s safe for nothing. He’s…He _was_ pulling off some sort of…twisted Tom Ripley scheme on your grandfather.” He called out for Arthur, checking each room with no luck.

He found his way back in the living room, this time, spotting Gerhardt’s satchel on the coffee table.

Mal watched him empty its contents. “The letters, Eames. What do they say?”

“They’re from Berlin. Official letters with instructions for Bernard’s arrest. Christ.” He paled. “My god… Does the name Gerhardt Traus ring any bells?” When she shook her head, he explained, “Traus was one of the most notorious spies during the war, Mal. He…He’s responsible for hundreds of arrests, hundreds of executions from here to Warsaw. His methods of torture were unparalleled. Once you fell into his hands, you were never the same again. He was never captured. He was rumored to have disappeared somewhere in Argentina, but this whole time…” He balled up the letter in his fist as he rambled, his panic reaching its peak. “This entire time, he’s been living under the ID he used to spy on your grandfather. Not once has he ever stepped foot in front a court for the fucking atrocities he’s committed—”

“Oh no… Eames, no.”

“—He was particularly fond of mutilating Jewish women and hunting Jewish boys—”

The ground shook again, sending a cracked piece of the ceiling crashing to the floor.

“Bloody hell, Mal. He’s got Arthur.” In a spike of rage, he threw a vase at the bookshelves.

Mal scrambled to her feet and grabbed Eames’ hands. “Eames, I need you to focus. Try to relax—”

“Relax? How the bloody fuck am I supposed to relax when Arthur’s alone with this madman? Do you have any idea what he could do to him—Do you have any idea what he could be doing to him right now? He’s going to turn Arthur’s brain into a fucking broken mess of a wasteland that won’t end when he wakes up, and you want me to relax? My god, look around you. The fucking dream is deteriorating, Mal.”

She grabbed his collar and slapped him hard enough to make him stumble back. “Yes, Eames! I need you to relax and pull yourself together! Falling apart won’t save him and I cannot do all this alone,” she said, her voice full of power and control.

Eames rubbed his face as if he’d just woken up. “Right.” He cleared his throat and nodded. “You’re right.” He had never felt so hopeless in his life. “Mal, what if we can’t get there in time, what if—”

“We will,” she assured him, taking care to wipe the tears from his eyes. “This is only a dream. We can do this. We just need to find where Sturm has taken him.” She looked around the open living room and kitchen for a place the mark might keep his secrets.

Eames was already headed for the bedroom. “This place is identical to Bernard’s. He would stick to having the same hiding spot as well.”

Mal stood back as Eames unhinged the locked closet door and pulled the coats out of the way.

The safe was there on the floor. Mal opened it with her grandfather’s key. Neither was surprised to see that that safe housed Gerhardt’s secrets, but what those secrets were had them both shocked. Under a large, folded map highlighting forest chapels in Germany with the safe’s location circled in its center, was a series of candid photos and trinkets. Some photos were of Bernard, but most were of a slim man with dark hair who had dimples when he smiled, and he was smiling brightly in most of the photos taken as he walked with an elderly man across a street. They both had large stars sewn into their coats. The young man’s face filled more photos as Mal and Eames continued to rifle through the safe’s contents.

“This is him, this is Joseph,” Mal spoke, reading the scribbled notes on the back of the photos. Sure enough, the only resemblances to Arthur were general things like his hair and height. Joseph was much too skinny and smaller in his shoulders. Their smiles were different, Joseph’s more free and wide, but their dimples were the same. “Do you remember the photos in his house, of his wife?”

“Christ, Mal, Joseph looks more like her than he does of Arthur. What happened to this boy? God, I wonder if his wife ever found out about all this.”

Stuck between the last two pages were photos of the young man sleeping nude in Gerhardt’s bed, his hands tied and his face heavily scratched out of every one of those particular pictures.

Mal shook her head and wiped at her eyes. “His repression of his sexuality has clearly warped his mind,” she observed. “Where have you taken our Arthur?” she muttered to the photos.

One of the star patches was crumpled over a collection of pages torn from a journal.

“Look at the journal entries.” Eames read a random passage as another tremor shattered the glass window across the room. “He must have been stalking this poor boy for months. Some of these dates run parallel with his spying on Bernard.”

Under the papers was a pile of cigarette lighters. “This one I gave him this morning,” Eames said, picking it up. “He’s hoarding them.”

Mal’s eyes were wide as she put the pieces together. “That’s it, Eames. I remember my father saying once that Bernard was fond of a store here that sold only the finest tobacco products. Bernard took Gerhardt there during their early days of working together, but within months it was closed and the Jewish family that owned the store had disappeared.” She sifted through the photos of Bernard quickly. “Here, look.” It was one of only a few posed photos of Bernard and Gerhardt posing together. They were standing in front of the tobacco store. “This place was controversial because there was a synagogue not two doors down.”

“It’s the only lead we have.”

“Wait, I hear something.”

The voices of two men drifted in through the opened bedroom door. The uniformed projections were too busy examining the broken door and Cobb’s body to see Mal before she put a bullet in both their heads.

Eames took one of their coats and hats, making up a quick forge.

“You have a plan?” Mal asked as they stepped over the men on their way to the door.

+

 

Arthur remembered drowning once, when he was thirteen.

It had still been worse than the car wreck that took his brother several years later. When he’d hit his head in the crash, he’d fallen unconscious at once and had woken up in the hospital a month later, the only pain being residual from the surgery.

But drowning had hurt more than anything, maybe more than getting shot, if he’d been conscious enough to remember that too, because he could feel his lungs fighting for air when he’d been drowning, feel them filling up with salt water and it had burned. It had burned in his chest, his stomach, his throat, it had burned in his head when the lights went out and hurt more when he’d come back, coughing and choking, his sternum crushed by the frantic pressing from his dad to get him breathing again.

Now he wondered if it was simply the act of dying and being revived that hurt, not necessarily the way it happened. He’d felt his life slipping away perhaps a dozen times on this floor already, relieved that he would wake up soon and this would finally be over, and Gerhardt was always there to keep him trapped in this nightmare, and it hurt more every time, being revived.

He wasn’t rope-bound anymore, but his wrists were covered to keep him from slashing them after he’d snatched away Gerhardt’s knife again in a rash attempt to end his suffering, as if Arthur had the strength or focus left to succeed in killing himself.

Arthur’s nails scraped on the floorboards as he was overcome with another bout of nausea. He was choking but he couldn’t cough up his sickness and his head was too fuzzy to understand why he couldn’t open his mouth.

Maybe he wasn’t dreaming. He had no idea. He hadn’t made a totem yet.

Gerhardt was gone, Arthur guessed. He tried to roll onto his stomach, but twisting popped the stitching on his waist.

He blinked. Gerhardt’s shoes were in front of his face.

“Going somewhere, Joseph?”

Arthur moaned up at the man looking down at him, shivering when he saw the cigarette at Gerhardt’s lips.

Gerhardt chuckled at his panicked stare. “Oh no, don’t worry, my sweet. This one is for me.”

Arthur’s heart beat out of his chest when Gerhardt knelt beside him, unable to hold back his tears again.

“Oh, hush.” He rubbed a warm towel on the backs of Arthur’s hands and over his face. “Don’t look at me like that, there’s nothing to be sorry for, Joseph. We all cry when in pain. If I didn’t love you so much, I would have let you die, but I didn’t. Be grateful,” he whispered, peppering Arthur’s forehead with kisses. “Now, it’s time to get off this floor. We have company. I want to show you off a bit.”

Arthur groaned, nearly fainting when he was pulled to his feet. 

Gerhardt stopped Arthur’s head from lolling with a hand at his throat. “They’ll be so impressed with my work, _but_ ,” he pointed a finger at Arthur face and squeezed his arm, making him flinch, “you had better be on your very best behavior or else your punishment will not end tonight. Do you understand?”

Arthur nodded quickly, weak kneed. He had an idea momentarily that if he refused he would be put out of his misery before remembering how much his refusals had gained him thus far.

“My agents should be finished with the clean up at my home by now. So, if you’re a good boy, I’ll take you there, to my bed tonight instead, where we might at long last consummate our love for each other, okay?” He waited for Arthur to nod again and squeezed his arm when Arthur hesitated. At last, he smiled. “Good. See? You’re learning already.”

 

Eames broke in to the backdoor to let Mal inside. He waited out front for another uniformed projection to walk his way.

In the darkness after curfew, it was easy to take him out silently. He quickly found the man’s keys and hurried up the stairs to the flat.

The rest of the projections were in living room, laughing and chatting loudly as one spilled their beer. Gerhardt stood in the middle of the floor smoking and laughing with them as three of his projections huddled over Arthur.

He couldn’t see him, but he could hear his muffled screams as one man carved a nasty slur into Arthur’s arm.

Gerhardt was the first to see Eames hovering in the doorway. “Ah, Mr. Wilhelm, come and say hello to Bernard Miles’ little Jew spy. Come, come,” he picked Arthur up around his waist and ushered Eames into the kitchen. He dumped Arthur into a chair. “Sit with him for a moment while I wash my hands. Keep the others off of him for a bit, will you?”

It was hard to forge when he was distracted, but who could blame him? Half of him wanted to sob at seeing Arthur, and the other wanted to explode into a fireball and burn the whole world down for what Gerhardt and his projections had done.

Arthur hadn’t been gagged, his mouth had been sewn shut. His neck was covered in rope burns. He was bleeding under his shirt and barefoot. His hands gripped the edge of the table close to his chest to keep himself upright, his knuckles littered with cigarette burns.

His skin was ghostly pale and he swayed in his chair, shoulders hunched and his head down, waiting for more pain.

For a moment, Eames couldn’t breathe. Something in him wished that this wasn’t a dream. Then and only then would he be able to kill Arthur and let his suffering end forever. If Arthur had only been given a scratch, Eames would have still blamed himself for being too late to save Arthur. This, however, was so much worse than he could have imagined. There was no way he and Mal had shown up in time.

“Hey,” he whispered, when they were alone. “Look at me.”

Arthur eyes looked right past him to the window at Eames’ back, longingly, scowling through his pain as if it took everything in him just to hope to be beyond that window some day soon. Or perhaps, his blank stare was testament to how far he’d been damaged.

Eames blinked back tears as new ones fell down Arthur’s face. It was almost too much for Eames to bear. Arthur never cried and yet… Eames reached out gently, carefully touching his hand and Arthur bowed further into himself, not fighting, just silently crying and waiting for whatever Eames was about to do to his hand.

“Arthur,” Eames tried again, slowly. “It’s me, kiddo. The thorn in your side? Yeah? Don’t tell me that you, of all people, can’t spot me under a forge.” But even Eames could tell as the minutes passed by…Arthur was lost in his head. “Arthur, if you’re in there somehow, just…just hold on. I’m going to bring you back. I promise, okay?”

Mal removed her heels before entering the flat. She could see Eames’ forge and Arthur sitting at the kitchen table as she slipped inside, her gun ready. “Eames,” she breathed, as not to draw the attention of Gerhardt and the others, “what’s wrong?”

“He’s gone, Mal. We were too late.” His eyes blurred, watching Mal quietly and hastily try to do what Eames couldn’t.

Her hands shook. “There is a way.” Eames was shaking his head, disagreeing. “Listen to me, there is a way.”

A voice drifted down the hall as a projection was ordered by the others to bring more beer. Mal caught him in a headlock and brought him down silently.

She cupped Eames’ face, imploring him to look at her. “You must go a level deeper.”

He frowned, confused. “What the hell is that supposed to—” His eyes went wide as he stared at Mal. “Wait… I know what you’re talking about, and I don’t like it, Mal. I love Arthur, but I’m not getting stuck down there in no man’s land, too. If this… If you’re right then…he’s beyond gone, he’s…”

“Dom and I have done it before,” she confessed, her worried eyes on Arthur, watching him stare at the table. “It is safe, Eames. You must find him there and bring him back. Quickly.”

Eames watched Arthur as well, warring with himself. At least, he nodded. “Okay. How do we do this?”

Mal dreamed up a PASIV and prepared Eames’ wrist. “When you are lowered deeper into Arthur’s subconscious, I need you to remember, first, yourself, and then, why you are there. Your mind will be tempted to drift, to lose yourself, but you must remember your purpose.”

“Okay.” He gathered his resolved, his hand still covering Arthur’s. “Got it.”

“Eames,” she pressed, as more voices rose from the living room, “remember what you must do.”

 

It took Eames a small eternity to figure out where he was.

Arthur never said much about Atlanta, always a little embarrassed by his southern upbringing, although, in Eames’ mind, Atlanta didn’t exactly look very backwoods.

Eames didn’t understand Arthur’s view of the city. It was beautiful in its mixture of historic and modern architecture—that was, when the city _wasn’t_ void of color and under nearly four feet of water.

Though the sun shined high in the sky, Eames waded through clear waters that were littered with debris from the surrounding buildings. Books, and books, and more books floated by, with scattered tables and benches. Here and there, to Eames’ great confusion, lay piles of wrecked cars stacked like junkyard pillars, up and down the streets, each with the same devastating blow dented into their right sides.

He didn't want to think about how long it took him to find the man he was looking for in this vast, empty city. Arthur was on his back, drifting lazily through the flood. His hair was longer, his face much younger. In the water, Arthur seemed small and fragile in his t-shirt and jeans. He looked dazed as he stared up into sun.

“Georgie?” he asked after a moment, his voice scratched and raw.

Eames smiled through the tears he'd long forgotten were wetting his face. "So that's what you call me, in your head? I like it."

“How did you find me?”

“I had help,” he nearly choked on his words once he caught one of Arthur’s ice-cold hands. “Now, come on, Arthur. We’ve got to get back. Mal is waiting, and Dom…yeah?”

Arthur blinked, his brow creasing just the slightest. “My brother’s here,” was his only reply.

Eames grimaced, understanding the cars now. “Darling, your…He’s dead. Remember?”

“Not here, he isn’t.”

“That’s because this place isn’t real, darling, but…with Dom and Mal…and me, _that’s_ real.”

Arthur nodded slowly, eyes still on the sky. “You’re here now, too. They must be close by. Let's go look for them.”

“No, no, no, no, no. Not _here_. They’re up there.” He pointed to the sky, but realized that was wrong. “They’re waiting for us to get back, yeah? We’ve got to get back, Arthur.”

“Where there’s pain…”

Eames sighed, rubbing his face.

“These books are all from my brother’s favorite bookstore. That’s where we headed. He’s probably there now. I hate books.”

“Jesus Christ… Arthur, come on. You can’t stay here, darling. We have to get back.”

“ _Or_ …you could stay with me here… You always said you wanted to see where I grew up and I now I have no choice, since you just…appeared. How did you get here, anyways? I thought you were living in California. The east coast is so different, isn’t it?”

“No, Arthur. This…this isn’t real.”

He frowned, his eyes at last on Eames. “What makes you think that?”

Eames swallowed, noticing for the first time the tiny pinprick marks around Arthur’s mouth, the fading scars on his arms. “Has downtown Atlanta ever been completely void of people and filled with fresh water?”

His frown grew more severe, his expression spooked. He was beginning to put the pieces together. “First time for everything, right? And look over there. That’s the—”

“No!” Eames grabbed his face to stop him looking at the building beside them. He didn’t know much about limbo, but spotting familiarities within any dream always held its risks.

 _Risks_. Like what was happening back in the house. “This isn’t real,” Eames began whispering the mantra, remembering that Mal was up there, alone, with a house full of violent projections. “Damn.” He looked down, but Arthur was staring at the building, reading the address on its entrance. “Fuck it. I’m sorry, Arthur, but we have to speed this up.”

He apologized over and over until he could get a solid on Arthur, pushing down his chest until he got him submerged, drowning him in the sea of books.

 

Eames blinked, back at the kitchen table.

Mal had a second projection around the neck, silently subduing him near the doorway.

He held his breath when Arthur finally met his eyes.

There was no guarantee that he’d brought him back in the correct way. Arthur could have been floating in that water for only God knew how long. In Eames’ mind, it was hardly enough, but at least now, Arthur was responding.

Eames beckoned to him again, willing him to understand.

Arthur tilted his head with a bit of control over his movements, his brow slowly rising as he saw Eames through his forge. He looked down at the hand covering his. His free hand made its way on top of Eames’ fingers. His head bowed, touching the back Eames’ hand with his nose.

Mal glanced at Arthur, full of sympathy, but relieved to see him improving. “I’ll save Gerhardt for you,” she whispered to Eames, placing a hand on his’ shoulder. She left the kitchen without a sound as the projections split up to roam throughout the house upon Gerhardt's drunken orders.

Right away, Mal found the man standing alone in the living room, swaying slightly, with his nose in a book.

Eames let the forge slip away as he rose from the table. Arthur clutched his hand, commanding with his eyes that Eames not leave him. “We’ll only be a second apart, I promise.” He took Arthur’s hands and placed a pistol in his palms.

Mal stood on the opposite end of the room, watching Gerhardt. “Hello,” she spoke only loud enough for him to turn around. She shot his legs from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. He howled in pain as she began taking out the projections.

Eames didn’t stay to watch Arthur blow his brains out over the table. It was always too unnerving for him when Arthur had to die to escape a dream, and now more than ever before, it was an image he refused to see. Hearing the gun fire was enough.

He dashed for Gerhardt, raining blows with whatever he could get his hands on, reveling in the pain he saw in the man’s eyes, as the dream began to the collapse around them.

He didn’t care whether he killed the man or not, whether the sedative was strong enough to keep him under should Eames succeed in killing him. He didn’t stop until the bookshelf toppled over and the floor gave way beneath them.

+

 

Arthur woke up choking for air and clambered off the couch, ripping out his IV. He was disoriented, unsure of how to escape the old man’s quaint little yellow house, even as Dom tried to rush after him.

He found his way blocked by a bedroom door and simply screamed as loud as he could manage. He didn’t stop screaming despite Dom’s unheard promises that he would back off if only Arthur stopped panicking.

Eames was enveloping him in a death grip when he blinked. The man had to wrestle Arthur against the wall, knocking over a vase as he tried to get Arthur’s hand out of his own mouth. Arthur was biting his hand, drawing blood, in order to convince his mind that his mouth was no longer bound. He expelled every sound he’d been forced to hold back.

Mal was there, pulling Eames and Dom back into the living room.

Arthur was alone in the hallway, but it was okay. He was out. He was finally out.

He was pacing the floor, eerily silent now and breathing like he’d been holding his breath for an hour, when Eames returned to him with their coats, guiding Arthur towards the front door.

“We haven’t finished the extraction,” Arthur pointed out suddenly, his eyes wide and dazed.

“Mal and Dom’ll take care of it. Come on, darling.”

“Wait.” He tugged on Eames’ arm again, his voice raw. “I need shoes.”

“Darling, you’re wearing shoes. See?” He cupped Arthur’s face, speaking softly. “We’re awake. Remember? Remember how you were before we went under, yeah? Look at yourself.”

Arthur looked down, expecting to see his bare feet sticking to the wooden floor from the blood underneath them, but… He fought a sudden overwhelming feeling of nausea. “Right. Of course. I’m fine.” He couldn’t say that to Eames’ face.

Not that it mattered. Eames didn’t believe him, and he was grateful that he didn’t.

 

Eames had taken them back to his apartment in San Francisco on the first flight out from Frankfurt.

Arthur could feel him watching him all the time, like he was waiting for Arthur to crack so he could be there at once to put him back together.

Too bad, he’d missed that moment already, but it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know what Arthur was normally like, although sometimes, Arthur didn’t either.

“I like when you do that,” Eames had said on the second morning. He was at the stove cooking breakfast.

“Do what?” he’d asked in a voice he felt was still weak.

“You’re always touching me. I like it, a lot.”

Arthur had looked down at his hands and saw how close he’d been standing behind Eames, not saying a word, just gripping the back of his shirt in his hands, his face pressed into the back of Eames neck.

Eames had been smiling at him over his shoulder, not understanding that Arthur wasn’t being romantic.

But he hadn’t made fun of Arthur for being so clingy, and by the second week, Arthur realized that he liked this too. Sitting on the couch together, nearly under Eames’ arm, or going to the grocery store together and not letting Eames out of his sight, not minding in the least the way Eames circled and zigzagged through the store three dozen times without a list.

Or waking up under Eames’ shirt with Eames still in it. How he’d managed to burrow under it and not get crushed, neither of them knew, but it made Eames happy. Everything about Arthur seemingly made Eames happy. Eames never asked for anything.

 

Arthur stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror that night, distracted from his face washing.

He looked normal, yet he felt like a ghost.

He hated that it had to be like this. All that time spent avoiding a relationship for fear of failing, and in the end, Arthur didn’t even have to do anything but just be here, wherever Eames was.

But he wasn’t himself. In his mind, he didn’t just want to be here, he wanted to…to do whatever it was that people did with their boyfriends, but he would wake up every morning after a rough night of fighting sleep and know that the sweet parts of him had been dug out with a Gerhardt’s sized scoop. He’d been left hollow and heavily scarred though, thankfully, his mouth hadn’t scarred at all, or his wrist, or…

He shook his head, his eyes stinging. At least it wasn’t his or Eames’ fault this time, that things were going to fall apart.

Suddenly he heard a sound like a freight train rumbling nearer and nearer before the floor began to tremble. Arthur turned off the water, waiting to see if it would get worse. He remembered now why he wanted to move to the east coast. The earthquakes here were nerve-racking to say the least.

He turned the water back on once the tremor passed and splashed his face, but paused, hearing Eames shouting.

A second later, the man barged into the bathroom and grabbed Arthur, checking him over.

“Eames, stop. What are you doing?”

He stilled. “Shit.” He released a heavy, relieved sighed. “My god, I thought that… Oh, fuck, Arthur, Mal was right. I need a bloody totem. I thought you were…”

A strange laugh bubbled out of Arthur. He continued to laugh as Eames held him in a tight bear hug. His cheeks hurt after not smiling for so long. He’d been silently panicking all this time, still trapped halfway in the dream and half out, and all this time, Eames was stuck too.

He smiled under Eames’ hands as the man brushed his hair back.

He was overtaken with nerves, however, seeing that look in Eames’ eyes a second before it was too late. They were kissing and it felt wonderful, but Eames was pressing him back against the sink and if he wasn’t careful, Arthur’s stitches might tear again. He didn’t want to bleed out on the tiles. “Stop.”

Eames pulled back at once and saw how Arthur had his arms over his stomach, protectively. “I can’t touch you there?” he asked, his hand hovering near Arthur’s hip.

“No. It hurts.”

“Does it?”

He blinked and lifted his shirt. Nothing was there. He turned to look at his back in the mirror. The deep, carved star was gone too.

“Hey,” Eames urged, rubbing his shoulders, “hey, it’s okay. We just both got confused for a bit, that’s all. It’ll pass. We’re here. You’re safe, Arthur. The dream is over.”

Arthur angrily pulled on his own hair and rubbed his face. “I know that, but I just…”

“I know, darling. I know.” He held Arthur again, rubbing his back. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

 

Arthur’s eyes shifted every once in a while from the ceiling in the dark to Eames snoring beside him. He would always envy the ease with which Eames fell asleep, but he supposed no one was waiting behind Eames’s eyelids like they were with Arthur.

He hugged Eames’ arm when the man tossed it over Arthur’s middle in his sleep. He traced one shoulder under Eames’ t-shirt with the tips of his fingers. He should be sleeping too, or…something other than rubbing away the tiredness from his face like a child afraid to go to sleep because a boogieman was hiding in the room.

A car horn down the street brought his tired eyes to the window. How many people were in bed in San Francisco right now, how many wrapped in the arms of the person who loved them?

He was sure he had to be the only one lying awake like this when he could have…when he and Eames could be…

His loud, frustrated groan startled Eames awake. “What’s wrong?” he slurred, stretching.

“Are you tired, or… Of course, you’re tired. You were sleeping.”

Eames hummed, pulling him closer. “You’re just a really nice pillow, that’s all. We can stay up, if you want.”

“I want…” He sighed again and covered his face.

Eames stopped him from turning away. “Hey, come back. You’re cute when you’re pathetically shy.”

“Fuck off, Eames,” he muttered through his hands.

“Oh no,” he tugged Arthur’s hands away and kissed his face, “I’m not going anywhere. Especially since I pay rent for this place,” he teased gently. “So, want to tell me what’s on your mind?”

He sighed again, eyeing Eames with hesitancy.

Eames frowned and started to get up. “I’ll phone Mal.”

“No, wait. It’s just… We haven’t…”

Eames’ brow shot up. “Darling, we don’t have to. We’ve got all the time in the world, if you don’t—”

“I do, I want…you. I want to forget, and just be normal like we were supposed to be, you know?” He had Eames’ shirt in his hands again.

“But, darling,” Eames frowned, “your mind… It’s processed that dream as a memory. I’m sorry, but you can’t just forget stuff like that—”

“Then I want new memories, Eames. I don’t want to wait until something else happens. I mean… I would have given up if you hadn’t found me when you did—”

Eames buried his face in Arthur’s neck. Arthur still flinched a little when Eames’ hand went under his shirt.

Arthur felt Eames’ lips at his neck pressing soft kisses up to his ear. He turned and caught the next kiss.

Eames moved on top of him, kissing him deeper. His hands found Arthur’s and squeezed them tightly. Eames’ military tags were cool on Arthur’s neck when they slipped past Eames’ collar as he kissed Arthur’s face.

Arthur chased his lips again, but Eames held back, staring down at him suddenly.

“Arthur?” Eames’ voice was rough, his eyelashes wet. “You know that I love you, more than anything, right?”

Arthur let out a surprised laugh and smiled brightly, wiping tears from his own eyes before clearing Eames’. “Yeah, I do. I have no idea _why_ , but—”

“Christ. Shut up, Arthur,” he laughed, kissing him deeply again. He let Arthur take his shirt off. “I want to see you,” he explained as he turned on the lamp by the bedside.

Arthur lifted himself up as Eames undressed him, their eyes never leaving one another. Eames pushed his own boxers down the bed somewhere, lost in the sheets, and settled in close to Arthur.

His touch was warm and soothed some of Arthur’s nerves even as his own hands traveled across the plains and curves of Eames’ shoulders and back.

They broke off their kisses only long enough to plant more of them over necks and chins and chests. Arthur’s hand slipped between their rocking hips to take Eames’ length in his hand and felt his heart thump faster at the growl that rumbled through Eames. 

Arthur watched him slide down over him but couldn’t keep his eyes open when Eames took him into his mouth. He tried to cover his sounds but Eames’ hands were there, catching his and locking their fingers together again.

He sucked in his stomach, tickled when Eames rubbed his face under his navel.

“Sorry,” Eames muttered. “My stubble always grows back with a vengeance. I’ll—” Arthur cupped his face, his little grin halting Eames’ embarrassed words.

“I love your stubble,” he whispered back, pulling him up. He kissed the blush covering Eames’ cheeks and down his jaw to his lips; awkward little kisses that surely made Eames’ heart flutter. “I love _you_.”

“Careful, Arthur. You don’t know what it does to my head hearing you say that.”

He smiled as Eames reached for the bedside drawer. Arthur let him part his legs wider so he could fit more comfortably between them. Their foreheads pressed together as Eames’ hand joined Arthur’s between them and went further back. He kissed Arthur all while preparing him, stretching him carefully and getting him wet.

It didn’t hurt like Arthur had always feared it would. Instead, his eyes closed again and he held Eames’ arms. He bit his lip to keep from stealing more of Eames’ air, but Eames’ mouth was back, kissing him deeply as he carefully searched Arthur’s body for the spot and found it.

Eames chuckled when Arthur cursed under his breath. “Hey,” he whispered, “look at me, I need to see those eyes, darling.”

“Wait.” He stilled Eames’ hands as they moved to break the seal on the condom packet. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, blushing. “I want all of you.” He kissed Eames’ cheek as he put it back in the drawer and resettled over Arthur.

“How are you feeling?” At Arthur’s nod, Eames kissed his nose and wrapped his arms under Arthur’s waist to angle him more comfortably. “Hold onto me, okay?”

Arthur’s mouth fell open when he pushed in, slowly. Eames’ brow was furrowed against Arthur’s hair. Arthur gripped Eames’ arms tightly, feeling the slide and stretch as Eames enter him, overcome with pleasure. He was enveloped in warmth that radiated from within, made his legs tremble and his toes curl behind Eames’ back. And Eames was there above him, every time he opened his eyes, gazing down at him with love evident even in the way his hands splayed wide under Arthur’s back.

“My god, do I love you, boy,” Eames panted, his arms shaking, but he held back until Arthur rocked his hips carefully. He propped himself up on his elbows and sought out Arthur’s hands again. He held them as he moved in a slow rhythm, moaning softly into Arthur’s mouth.

Eames’ hands let go of his to touch more of his skin. Places Arthur never paid much mind to, but under Eames’ exploring hands, his heart beat out of his chest, his breath heavy, as fingertips traced the inside of his elbows and under his arms.

His head fell back when Eames found the sensitive, soft underside of his knees and along his inner thighs, to one hip as he stroked in, then across to the other as he stroked out.

“Eames,” he gasped, his fire burning out of control. “Please.”

Eames’ strokes gradually became harder, more precise. “I’ve got you, darling. Just hold on to me.”

And he did, even as he felt Eames lift him into his lap. His back lightly pressed against the wooden headboard as Eames’ hips rocked with the same slow, steady pace. Eames made sure that their eyes never left each other for more than a moment, but their pleasure was building, they were climbing higher and higher towards that peak.

He was consumed by all of Eames’ passion and reveled in his worship. This was his life, his _new_ life, and for a moment he felt so overwhelmed, as if being loved so completely might sweep him away, but he clung to Eames’ shoulders, felt Eames’ arms so tightly around his waist.

They remained together in each other’s arms, under the covers, unwilling to let go long after their releases gripped them.

Arthur rubbed the downy curls across Eames’ chest, with Eames watching him intently. “Will you stay with me?” he whispered against Eames’ lips suddenly, surprised by the fear that gripped him at the thought of being apart from this man.

Eames held him tighter. He caressed his back. “Always… You are my life.” He brushed Arthur’s hair from his face, matching Arthur’s tired smile with one of his own. “Always, my darling.”

He whispered sweet promises to Arthur until he fell, at last, into a peaceful sleep, Eames joining him soon after.

+++

+

 

Marie was finishing up with Phillipa’s bath when the headlights from Mal and Dom’s car shined through the living room windows.

Miles could hear them speaking softly to each other in the foyer from his seat on the couch. He had been looking through old photos. “Did you have a nice trip?” he asked, looking up at Dom when the young man sat on the opposite couch.

Mal sat beside her father. “That is a long story neither Dom nor I have the heart to tell just yet.”

Miles nodded, accepting the key she placed on the table in front of him. It broke his heart, but he supposed finding the safe was impossible after so many years.

Except, Mal placed the locket on the table as well. He’d recognize that necklace even if he were blind. He wanted to shout his excitement but only tears came pouring down.

Mal wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his forehead. Dom squeezed his hand before standing to call for Phillipa.

++

+

 

**End.**

****

**Author's Note:**

> http://grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com/
> 
> http://tamat9.tumblr.com/


End file.
